


Help Me Through The Storm

by AdurnaSkulblaka



Series: Gunslinger [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Post Season 8, Season/Series 08 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-11
Updated: 2014-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-26 07:32:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 111,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/963262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdurnaSkulblaka/pseuds/AdurnaSkulblaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The angels have fallen and it's all Castiel's fault. Once again, he finds himself at the centre of the problem. However, this time, he's determined to put things right - as soon as he's found the Winchesters, that is. </p><p>Sam seems to be struggling to recover from the Trials, but that's not the only problem: when a few familiar faces return, one in particular zeroes in on him, and as Dean's already pulled in so many directions, Sam takes this one upon himself.</p><p>And Dean? Not only is he balancing looking after his brother and Kevin, but he has a few thoughts of his own that need to be sorted out concerning a certain fallen angel. He also faces a decision he's had to make before, only this time the answer may be different.</p><p>With both demons and ex-angels hunting them, can the three of them put the balance back together?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What A Time To Be Alive

**Author's Note:**

> This picks up directly after the end of Season 8, so turn back now to avoid spoilers if you don't want them! I will be using very few pointers from the official Season 9 (pretty much none). This was written before it, so I don't think I need to point out that it will probably deviate from canon when it comes out. 
> 
> Now that that's out of the way, enjoy!
> 
> ***
> 
> Songs I listened to while writing this chapter:
> 
> What I've Done - Linkin Park  
> Falling Down - Atreyu  
> The Immortals - Kings of Leon

Most humans would think that it was an unscheduled meteor shower. They’d happen to glance up and see streaks of light across the sky, maybe mutter ‘ooh’, watch for a while, and then move on.  


Castiel knew far better.  


He emerged from the woods, fresh, strong emotions washing through him. Seeing his brothers and sisters tumbling to Earth was the final straw. Everything caught up to him: the stress, the hurt, the betrayal, the apologies Dean hadn’t accepted. A tear rolled down his cheek, almost without him noticing.  


There was also the realisation that, yet again, Castiel had chosen the wrong path. He’d messed up _again_. This time, he’d even been warned off of it, but he’d soldiered on to do it anyway. Another tear fell, this time from the other eye.  


Before he could linger much longer, there was a high pitched whine from overhead. It was like it was spearing through his head, splitting it in two, and he raised his hands to cover his ears as he squinted at the sky. One of the ‘meteors’ was steadily heading towards him and the field he was standing in.  


First, he was surprised he couldn’t hear the angel’s voice. Surely he should have been able to hear _something_ across the ‘Angel Radio’? A cry for help, perhaps, or maybe a scream of terror. But no, there was only that whistle that was growing ever louder, and giving him a headache, to boot.  


Second, Castiel made a swift leap to the side to dodge the angel hurtling towards him, and tried to spread his wings to give himself a bit of extra lift – which was where he made his mistake. Because of the nature of the jump needed to successfully move into flight, his balance was off. When his wings didn’t come into being with a familiar rustle of feathers, Castiel toppled to the ground, rolling a few times down the slight incline of the field. He grunted as he hit the dirt, flinging out his hands to stop himself from going any further.  


There was a sound like a whip cracking behind him, and a bright flash of light. Castiel scrambled to his feet and unsteadily made his way back up the hill, swerving uncertainly across the ground as his equilibrium struggled to right itself.  
As soon as he saw the angel, he knew that it wasn’t going to survive.  


It didn’t have a vessel. Castiel had no idea why that was – maybe it had never acquired one, or it had been destroyed and had been in the process of finding a new one. The angel was simply a ball of white and pale blue light, writhing in the grass as it quickly began to dissipate. Little wisps came off from it and melted into the air. (It didn’t occur to Castiel that he shouldn’t have been able to look at his brother without his eyeballs burning in their sockets; he was far too distressed by his dying sibling to realise that he was basically human, and that looking at the naked Grace should have blinded him.)  


Castiel was certain that if he’d been able to access the correct wavelength, he would have heard his brother howling in agony. After all, his very essence was drifting away.  


His throat gave a sharp throb of remembered pain. Fear gripped him for a moment, holding him still, trapped like a mouse under a cat’s paws. There was an unfamiliar ache just under his shoulder blades, where his wings should have burst from earlier.  


He ignored it all for now, however, as an angel was dying before his very eyes.  


“Brother,” he gasped, and fell to his knees beside the light, which was already far smaller than when he’d first seen it. He scooped it into his hands, cradling it carefully. His skin tingled where it touched the Grace, little sparks of energy following the paths of his nerves before fizzling out.  


If he could just find a vessel for the angel, all would be well. Even a rabbit would do. But no matter how hard he tried, Castiel couldn’t reach out to any of the creatures that were undoubtedly hiding in the field. If he saw one and held out a hand to encourage it, it darted away before he could even twitch a finger.  


Before long, it was too late. The ball gave a last quiver and unravelled completely, the final particles of it spreading and fading. Castiel’s lips parted on a trembling exhale, his eyes widening. “No…” His voice was little more than a rasp. It sounded like he hadn’t had a drink of water for days.  


It was all Castiel’s fault. The thought hit him like a train, slamming into his chest and leaving him winded. He’d killed his brothers and sisters again. Not all of them would die – he knew some had vessels – but not every angel possessed one. Those that didn’t would end up like the one that had landed here, in this field.  


Tears welled up in Castiel’s eyes and spilled over.

* * *

Sam and Dean were still sat against the Impala outside the church. They hadn’t moved yet; Dean was struck by the sight in the sky, while Sam was simply unable to summon the strength to get up. Neither of them had even considered Crowley, bound, trapped and weak inside the building behind them.  


When Sam heaved a cough that sounded like he’d throw up a lung, Dean’s arm tightened around him, but he couldn’t tear his gaze away from the angels. Was Castiel among them? Or did the ‘die at the end of the Trials’ rule apply to the angel ones, too? Dean wanted to ignore that question, throw it down, stomp on it, and maybe shoot if for good measure, but he had to be realistic.  


Well, he tried. Losing Castiel was a thought he just couldn’t face.  


If Castiel was alive, he’d know that the most likely places he’d find the two of them would be the church or the bunker. He was a smart guy; Dean would put his money on Castiel’s first decision being ‘find the Winchesters’. He could fend for himself, he’d proven that time and again. Sooner or later, he’d turn up. If it ended up being never, well, Dean would deal with it, but whether that would be by going out himself to find him or with a bottle of something strong in his hand was up for debate.  


He tore his gaze away from the flashes of light – which were steadily slowing now – and instead set it on Sam. His brother was barely able to hold himself up under the force of the Trials leaving his system. He opened one bleary eye, watching Dean in return with a glazed look.  


Falling into mother hen mode was almost natural for Dean. He moved his arm from Sam’s shoulders to under his armpits and put all his strength into hauling him up off of the dirt. It was difficult because Sam was a dead weight in his arms, trying pathetically to help with little bursts of energy until Dean told him to stop, and he had to awkwardly open the passenger door to bundle him in before he could finally let go.  


As Dean clicked the seatbelt into place, Sam curled a hand around Dean’s wrist with surprising strength. Dean frowned up at him, waiting not-so-patiently. “What?”  


Sam’s throat bobbed as he swallowed; Dean could hear the dry click of it. “Crowley,” he muttered. The open eye flicked back towards the church before settling on Dean’s face again. He inhaled sharply, eye falling shut as he grimaced. “Can’t leave him.”  


Dean hissed air out between his teeth, but he nodded as he pulled out of Sam’s grip. “Fine. Don’t move.” The stare he aimed at his younger brother was firm and warning, even though he couldn't see it. In reply, a weak smile pulled on one corner of Sam’s lips.  


“Can’t really go anywhere,” he rasped, and Dean had to admire his ability to keep up the jokes even when he was so exhausted.  


Dean didn’t bother trying to come up with a response to that. Instead, he retrieved a gun from the trunk of the Impala and headed inside.  


Crowley hadn’t even tried to move, it seemed. As Dean moved around to his front, he raised his tear-stained face. The sight of his eyes rimmed with red was enough to make Dean raise an eyebrow. Oddly, a ghost of the cocky smirk Crowley used to wear flitted across his mouth. “Have you come to finish me off?” he asked, tilting his head. “You’d be doing me a favour, you know. Funny, that. It's almost poetic.”  


Raising his chin slightly, Dean snorted. “No, I’m not gonna kill you.”  


When Crowley spoke again, his voice was a growl, an attempt at being intimidating. “You might as well,” he snapped. Dean realised then that he’d been wrong; Crowley wasn’t trying to be threatening. _He was frustrated._  


“Everything’s been taken from me!” he snarled, straining against his bonds with the little strength he had. “Hell isn’t going to stay mine for very much longer, thanks to you two idiots messing up. And while we’re on the subject of _you_ …” The fight seemed to melt from his limbs, leaving him slumping against the frame of his chair. Crowley turned his face away, disgust making his lip curl. “You’ve made me into a… into something that’s neither here nor there, and judging by the missing moose, you’re not planning on finishing it, are you?”  


Dean merely shook his head. It was enough to make Crowley give a little hysterical laugh. “Tell me, Dean,” he continued. The use of his actual name made him listen a little closer. “How am I supposed to recover from that?”  


“You want my honest answer?” When Crowley didn’t give any verbal reply whatsoever – although, there was quite a strong glare he was aiming his way – Dean carried on. “I don’t know. Okay? I don’t know. Hell, I don’t even know what I should do with you now.”  


They couldn’t leave Crowley in this condition. They couldn’t take him with them so he'd find out about their base. Neither of them could stay until a plan formed – Sam needed rest and looking after, and Kevin was still waiting at the bunker.  


It would be stupid to let him go, but Dean couldn’t see any other option. They needed those chains back, as they were infinitely useful, which meant they couldn't strap him in tighter and come back later. Dean didn't even know if they had any paint left to secure the building, if that was the case.  


Besides, as Crowley had pointed out, he was mostly human now. He wouldn’t be able to do as much damage as before. If he could, Dean would have discussed it with Sam, but his brother was in no state to make big decisions.  


Dean looked down at his feet and sighed heavily, turning it over silently with a twist to his mouth. After the brief pause, he looked at Crowley again, who was waiting expectantly. “I’m gonna let you go. But there’s a condition to it.”  


There wasn’t a single comment from Crowley. Not one. He simply looked resigned. That was when Dean realised the extent of the damage that had been done to the previous ruler of Hell. He’d been kicked off his throne, and now he had no place in his previous home or on Earth, and certainly not in Heaven. Oh, Dean knew Crowley would do his damnedest to get back to his rightful spot as King of Hell, but it would be a struggle, especially with his now-human side working against him. He doubted demons would want to be led by someone like him.  


Nobody even knew what powers Crowley still possessed, or if he’d ever get them all back.  


Dean squatted in front of Crowley and began undoing the chains around his ankles. “As soon as you make a move against us, we’re gonna hunt you down and end you. There won’t be any mercy this time, either.”  


There was a moment of silence, during which the only sound was the soft clink of chains as Dean freed him, and then Crowley answered. “I don’t understand why you’re doing this,” he said eventually. “You have me in the palm of your hand. Why risk it?”  


Dean looked up, smiling innocently. “I figured it could be good to have a demon indebted to us. Also, I’m pretty sure you know Sam’s hardly in good condition right now, and even with you like this it’ll probably be difficult to keep you pinned.” He paused, and if Dean had seen himself, he would have recognised and been disgusted with the hard look in his eyes. It meant revenge, and pretty damn coldblooded revenge at that.  


Crowley chuckled quietly. “You’re playing a clever game, squirrel. And just when do you plan to collect on this debt?”  


“When it suits me.” He straightened and moved around to Crowley’s back so he could start on the rest of the bindings. “Could be when you’re tryin’ to get rid of us next. Might be when we need a demon up our sleeve. Who knows?”  


“It seems I underestimated you.” Crowley stretched his legs out in front of him with a sigh, rolling his ankles to soothe the aches. “I’ll make certain not to do so again in the future.”  


The conversation lapsed again, only this time it seemed like that particular topic was done. Dean left the various chains in a pile by the door, and now he was working on the last restraint – the collar. He hoped the devil’s trap would keep Crowley until he’d packed everything away. The piece of metal came away from his neck with a click and fell into Dean’s waiting hands.  


Crowley stayed where he was, hands folded on his crossed knees. He glanced over his shoulder, an eyebrow raised, when there was no sound of shoes on the floor. “Well? Are you going to finish up?”  


“Just to be clear, you’re not leaving the room until me and Sammy are on the road.”  


“Well, unfortunately, I have the feeling I’m going to have to walk out, so I can hardly leave in my usual style.”  


Dean chuckled and, looping the collar over one arm, he took out a pocketknife to scratch at the paint on the floorboards. “Restoring the balance already?”  


Crowley’s laugh made him seem more like himself. “Oh, naturally, darling.”

* * *

Dean was guiltily grateful that Sam was out cold by the time they got back to the bunker. He’d endured enough half-assed questions from his brother, slurred and faintly annoyed, to last him a lifetime. (A small part of Dean was smug about getting to choose Crowley’s fate; after all, Sam had suddenly decided he wasn’t going to make it out alive, which was so out of order Dean couldn’t even try to forgive him yet.) It was a good thing Sam had passed out, because it let Dean enjoy the silence, but it looked like Sam needed it, too.  


The moon was high up now, swollen and full, and the angels had stopped falling completely. There wasn’t even the occasional flash anymore. It seemed that Heaven was empty.  


He forcefully pushed those thoughts out of the way. Dean had other things to concentrate on, like getting the door to the bunker open and carrying his giant of a brother inside without falling over or dropping him.  


Before he was even fully inside, Kevin was darting over, eyes widening when he caught sight of Sam. He took over the task of supporting his legs without asking, leaving Dean with Sam’s torso, which was far easier. Together, they took him through to his room and lowered him onto his bed; Sam’s head nodded to the side, mouth hanging open, and Dean had to avert his gaze to stop the hot burn of anger and worry in his stomach.  


It didn’t look like Sam would be waking up for a while, so Dean located his brother’s phone and left it on the bedside table, next to a note: _Let me know when you’re awake. – Dean._ He made sure to pull off Sam’s shoes and socks before he and Kevin ducked out.  


Kevin seemed to understand that Dean wasn’t ready to talk yet, so he withdrew, leaving Dean to get his cup of much-needed coffee while he sat opposite him at the table. Dean sipped it silently while Kevin went back to work on decoding the Angel Tablet. Dean was sure that it meant something that Kevin did it without asking now, but he couldn't bring himself to think about it properly.  


When his mug was half empty, he heaved a sigh and sat up a little straighter. Kevin glanced up from his work, eyebrows raised slightly.  


“I only know for certain what happened on our end,” he began. “I don’t know about Cas, but I can take a good guess.” His gaze fell to his coffee, his forefinger tapping the rim of the cup.  


“Sammy stopped the last Trial and it sorta just… went outta him. At least, I think it has. I guess it took a lot outta him, because he fell asleep on the way back.” Dean glanced through to the corridor, but there was no sleepy Sam there this time, asking what to do next. It was empty, and his brother was unconscious, worn out and worn down.  


Dean purposefully left out the fact that he’d let Crowley go. He’d talk about that if Kevin asked – which he probably would, in time; he was a smart kid. But Dean glossed over that part for now, skipping straight to Castiel.  


“And it looks like Cas went ahead and finished the Trials anyway, 'cause the angels fell.” Dean sat back in his seat, head tipped back, eyes closed. There was no denying that he was furious with Castiel, even more so than he’d been before. He’d ignored Dean’s advice _again_ , despite the warning that the Trials weren’t going to solve anything.  


Although, if he was honest, Dean would let it go just to know that he was okay.  


“That’s what it was?” Kevin asked, startling Dean out of his head. “The angels? The power went weird at one point, but I had no idea it was them.”  


With a grunt, Dean went back to nursing his coffee. Kevin leaned forward to go back to the Tablet, paused, then sat up again. “Where _is_ Castiel?”  


The silence from Dean became frostier. He released his cup, hands balling up on the table instead; he was worried he’d end up throwing his mug at the wall if he held onto it.  


“I don’t know,” he said shortly. Suddenly, Dean snapped, unable to take the weight on his shoulders anymore. It was pressing, suffocating, holding him down with claws that were tearing at his lungs and making it difficult to breathe.  


He stood up, his chair falling back to crash against the floor. “I don’t _know_! And I’m- Jesus, I’m pissed at him and worried and- shit.” He buried the heels of his palms in his eyes, as if he could scrub out his anger. “I need to find him, but I _can’t_. I need to look after Sam. Cas is such a selfish _child_!”  


The cup didn’t suffer Dean’s fury, but the chair did; he kicked it as hard as he could, hurting his toe in the process, but the pain was a good one. It helped centre him somewhat. The chair skittered across the floor, squealing on the tiles, until it came to a rest by the counter. By then, Dean had already stormed out.  


He had the distinct feeling that violence wasn’t a good way to deal with anger – he probably had proof if he thought about it enough – but it damn well made him feel better. He made straight for their little shooting range so he could take it out on a target and get some practice in at the same time. Scooping up the first gun that his hands came into contact with, Dean loaded it and stood in one of the booths.  


Even though his veins were burning, Dean knew better than to shoot without being careful. He set himself up appropriately, made sure all was well, and forced a couple of calming exhales before firing.  


The sharp crack and the shockwave it sent down his arm were just what he needed. He exhaled long and slow as the echo faded, leaving the range quiet again but for his pounding heart and quick breaths.  


Another shot rang out, jolting Dean’s arm again and releasing a little more of his irritation into the air.  


The process continued until Dean was out of ammunition. The faint numbness in his arm from the repetitive bursts was something easily ignored; he was used to it, therefore it was pushed to the back of his mind. Some of his anger remained, but it was the usual simmer under the surface, also simply knocked away. He'd worked with that for a long time.  


Dean stood there until he felt relatively normal again. He went through the methodical task of cleaning the gun to try to cool off further, then put the gun away and left the range to go to his room instead. He left the mutilated target where it was; to those fluent in his language, it was a clear sign that he shouldn’t be bothered.  


After spending so much time stressing out, the sight of his room was a welcome one. Exhaustion set in mere seconds after Dean stepped inside, the door shutting behind him. He could just see the white of the walls, creamy in the gloom; they were lit up with an orange glow when he switched on the desk lamp.  


Instead of just toppling onto the covers and falling asleep as he wanted to do, Dean perched on the edge with his elbows on his knees, hands linked together in front of him. He bowed his head, eyes sliding shut.  


Dean took a second, letting his muscles release their tension, making him sag where he sat. The familiar lull of thought that a prayer brought on was soothing in itself. After the pause, he spoke, voice soft.  


“Second time in a short while, huh? I dunno what’s come over me.” He chuckled quietly, but there was no humour in the sound. It was rough, more of a cough than a laugh. “Cas, I don’t know if you can hear me, or if you’re even listenin’, but… I figured, why not?  


“Look, I know we didn’t part on real friendly terms – I’m still pissed at you, FYI – but I’m worried. About you, Sam, Kevin, even me.” He halted at the admission, swallowing down the words that would take it back. “I need you _here_ , man. And not just for my peace of mind.” _You’re family_ , was what Dean wanted to say, but that wouldn’t come out either.  


Dean tipped his head back, another laugh rasping in his throat uncomfortably. It was a little bit shaky, but nobody needed to know that. “Are you even an angel still? Am I just talkin’ to thin air this time, for real?”  


There was no answer.  


Shaking his head, Dean let it hang down over his chest again. “I guess what I’m trying to say is… be okay, Cas. Just- be okay. Come back to us in one piece.”  
 _I'm still pissed at you, but if I never got to forgive you before things went to shit..._

Still nothing.  


Swiping a hand across his face, Dean straightened his spine again and slapped his knees. “Good talk,” he announced to his room. He briefly contemplated the idea of cooking something, since Kevin was still out there, but then decided against it; Dean didn’t trust himself to focus on something like that at the moment, so he went along with his original plan: he fell face-first onto his pillow and stayed there until he drifted into a shallow sleep. 

* * *

It wasn’t the cold that drove Castiel from the field, nor the lowing that told him that cows were on the other side of it. It was the glow of morning on the horizon, coupled with a faint itch in the back of his mind. That itch used to be a voice for when prayers came through, only now it wasn’t audible at all, and it had the air about it of a late-received one, too. 

Of course, that was only speculation. Castiel had long come to the realisation that he was no longer an angel. Metatron had taken his Grace, and the proof that there was nothing left had been his failed attempts to save his brother at the beginning of the night. 

Castiel was completely human. It was a shock to the system, certainly. The realisation that he now needed to _breathe_ and _eat_ and _sleep_ in order to stay alive had knocked the wind from him, ironically. He was as human as Sam or Dean; no longer would he be able to smite a demon with a simple touch to the forehead, there wouldn’t be any wind in his feathers as he flew back to Heaven, and there definitely wouldn't be the gentle hum of his brothers and sisters in his head that used to wrap him in warmth. 

Anyone might expect that to be the reason to make him cry, but it was quite the opposite. Castiel was upset, obviously – there was a hollow feeling in his chest, an ache in his shoulders and a raw feeling in his throat – but it was his punishment for what he’d done. He knew that. Losing his powers, halo and wings was a way to pay for all of his crimes, in his mind. A brief sputter of hope made him check his mobile, but it was clear that his situation was worse than he'd realised; even to his inexperienced eyes, it was clearly broken. The screen was cracked, and when he pressed the button that was meant to turn it on, it stayed black. 

It seemed like he had to suffer for his actions a lot more recently. Purgatory, Dean’s rejection of his apology, and now this. 

So no, Castiel didn’t weep for himself, but for his race. His tears had long dried, however; there weren’t any left, and besides, his eyes stung at the mere thought of shedding more. By the time the sun had risen above the top of the trees he’d emerged from, Castiel had a goal in mind. He needed to leave the field and the woods behind so he could find the Winchesters – and, his body reminded him, food. Sleep, too; Castiel had spent the entire night awake, and he could feel the drag of weariness on his limbs. 

Before he could even consider heading off to find the bunker, Castiel needed to eat and rest. Finding out where he was would be helpful, too. He didn’t recognise his location, so who knew how far away he was from his friends? 

Castiel might be human, but he was still the same Castiel as he was before. Admittedly, there were a few more scars now, ones that Naomi and Metatron had left behind, and those would take a while to fade, if they ever would. But he was still Castiel. He was still a warrior and a friend of the two most popular (though not necessarily liked) hunters to ever walk the Earth. He was a man who had quite literally fallen from grace, but he was by no means beaten. 

Castiel stood and breathed in the scent of a new day. It was fresh, so clean he could almost taste it. He made himself feel the stretch of his lungs as they expanded, surprising himself when he found it to be an enjoyable sensation. 

It felt… _human_. 

He would find Sam and Dean, and he would become a real hunter this time. It wasn’t only because he was now obligated to use human methods of hunting, but also because it felt like the right thing to do. He had nowhere else to go, after all. It was a compelling idea. 

Castiel surveyed the ground before him, spotting a small village along a path at the foot of the hill. It was a start, albeit not the best one, but it was a place to go from. Had he still possessed his wings, they would have been spread wide in a challenge directed at the world. 

That stopped him in his tracks for a second, something squeezing around his heart uncomfortably. It was all very well acknowledging that he deserved this, but facing the reality was something else entirely. He neatly tucked the thought away for now. 

He set off at a steady pace, determined to reach the village before everything became busy. After he’d taken care of his body’s needs – _his_ body; that was another shocking thought. Before, it was simply a vessel, but now it was _his body_ – he would find a bus to take him home. 

* * *

When Dean woke the next morning, he felt more like himself. Sure, there were still problems – Sam was still asleep when he checked, and Castiel hadn’t even tried to call – but it seemed more hopeful in the light of day. 

He found Kevin passed out at the table, the remains of a sandwich next to him. The chair he’d kicked was still on its side, so Dean righted it with a little guilty flush. He felt that his anger had been completely justified, however, so he wasn’t going to apologise for it. He’d been under a lot of pressure to make sure Sam didn’t end up killing himself over the Trials, so he’d pretty much been a ticking time bomb of violence. At least inanimate objects had suffered instead of people. He felt significantly better after his outburst, too, which only strengthened his resolve. 

Dean cleaned up the plate Kevin had used, moving some papers and the hunk of stone to make him more comfortable. After a moment’s thought, he stole a pillow from a spare room and eased it under his head. Kevin snuffled and began to drool into it almost immediately. 

With that done, he set about making a late breakfast, enough for all three of them, complete with anything someone might want for a recovery. He cooked up most of what they had, in fact: sausages, bacon, toast and, after consideration, a burger each, too. Dean thought they all deserved it. 

Kevin stirred at the first sizzle of bacon; Dean heard him make a confused grumbling sound, and then there was the thud of his hand on the table before he pushed himself upright. 

“What time is it?” he mumbled. 

“About ten.” Dean shrugged, poking at the bacon and sausages with a spatula. “When did you go to sleep?” 

Kevin groaned, and a glance over his shoulder confirmed his suspicion that he'd dropped his head back onto the pillow. “Around six, maybe?” 

Dean paused, frowned, and put the food on the backburner – quite literally. He turned to lean against the counter and face Kevin. “You know there’s no rush now, right? Take it slow. Relax. You’re gonna kill yourself at this rate.” 

“I’ve gotta get this done,” he protested, voice muffled but firm. “The sooner it’s done, the sooner I can…” He trailed off, fumbling, and finished with a weak, “Relax.” 

Unconvinced but lacking an argument, Dean went back to making breakfast, pulling the pans back onto the heated rings. “What’re you really gonna do when you’re done?” 

Kevin made a thoughtful sound. Dean could picture the hesitant expression, wanting yet knowing that whatever he was picturing might not be a possibility. “I don’t know. I’d like to go back to school, but I don’t know if that’s realistic now. And there might even be more Tablets out there that I’ll get kidnapped over.” 

Dean was reminded painfully of a younger Sam, eager to go to college but simultaneously worried to. John’s obsession had nearly ruined that for him, and it looked like all the crap that surrounded this life was stopping Kevin, too. 

“You can hang with us for as long as you want,” Dean promised, then added, “Coffee?” 

“Sure, thanks.” 

After setting the pot on to make it for them, Dean started collecting plates and cutlery, ready to dish up the food. Dean was still walking on tiptoes, worried that Kevin would come to the conclusion that he hadn’t said anything about Crowley, but it looked like he wasn’t going to ask for now. It might’ve been because of Dean’s behaviour the previous night, but whatever it was, Dean was grateful for it. 

Whether Sam would abide by the same rule when he woke was a question Dean didn’t want to ask. 

He’d naturally want to know what he’d missed – it was important, and therefore necessary information. The truth would come out sooner or later, but a traitorous voice in his head started calling him a hypocrite for even thinking about keeping a secret when he didn’t want any from anyone else. 

His worry was quickly batted from his head. Bare feet dragged across the tiled floor, squeaking slightly, catching Dean’s attention just as he was putting sausages and bacon onto the plates (even distracted, Dean automatically continued making the food; it was extremely helpful for someone like him, as it let him perform a task while he thought about something else). 

When he was done, the spatula fell to the counter with a clatter, but the pan was set down more carefully. 

Sam looked like he had when he’d been in the middle of the Trials and his sleeping had been erratic, only this time there wasn’t the air of sickness about him. His hair was ruffled, he was unshaven, he was still wearing last night’s clothes, hell, he probably hadn’t even brushed his teeth, but seeing him awake was one of the most relieving sights Dean had been greeted with in a long time. As soon as he’d eaten, Dean would push him towards the bathroom so he could clean up. 

“How long was I out?” Sam asked. His voice was gravelly from his long rest, so he cleared his throat. Dean caught the wince that he tried to hide, but he kept his mouth shut for once. 

“No idea.” It felt like it had been days. In reality, it wasn’t even as long as Dean had expected; after a mere handful of hours, Sam was up and about. “How’re you feeling?” 

“Better?” Sam made it sound more like a question than a statement, but as he’d only just woken up after being ridiculously sick from the Trials, Dean let it slide. His brother’s nose twitched as he sniffed, then he licked his lips. “Do I smell bacon?” 

Even _Sam_ was looking forward to bacon. That was all it took to send Dean across the room and sweep Sam into a hug. His brother’s arms remained by his sides for a moment, then slowly came up to circle around Dean in return, a confused sound escaping him. 

“Uh… you okay?” 

“I’m fine,” Dean growled. He hung on for a moment longer, then pushed himself off with a final slap to Sam’s back. Turning, he went to finish setting out breakfast. 

“So, fill me in,” Sam said. He slid into the seat opposite Kevin, who gave him a small but friendly smile. 

For a second, no answer was given. Dean simply put down a plate in front of both Sam and Kevin, then grabbed his own before sitting down. It was practically a glowing sign above Dean’s head saying ‘something’s wrong’. 

“Dean?” Sam prompted. Despite his earlier interest in bacon, he was only prodding at his breakfast, still looking a little queasy. “You gotta tell me what happened, man. I can barely remembered it. It’s all…” He waved a hand in front of his face, watching as it passed his nose. “It’s all hazy. What happened to Crowley? And what about Cas?” 

“You never said anything about Crowley,” Kevin added, turning a suspicious look on him. He put his pen down, half reaching for his food while he kept an eye on Dean. 

Dean’s cutlery clicked on his plate as he put it down. “Ah, crap. Fine. But hear me out.” 

Sam and Kevin exchanged a glance. “That doesn’t sound promising,” Sam sighed. Then, louder, he said, “Well, let’s hear it. Better get this over with.”


	2. It's All Greek To Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs I listened to while writing this chapter: 
> 
> Peacemaker - Green Day  
> Survival - Muse

_Percy Jackson_ was, without a doubt, one of Charlie’s favourite books. It turned Greek mythology on its head and made it more interesting, like _Harry Potter_ had done for the idea of wizards and witches. Everything was modern, new, _fascinating_ , and when her mother had handed her the pile of books not long after she’d devoured _The Hobbit_ , she’d buried herself in them eagerly. They still stood on her bookshelf alongside her favourites; they’d come with her to her new home.  


After she’d helped Sam and Dean out with a couple of cases – not including the ordeal with Dick Roman – Charlie had kept an eye out and their number on speed dial. If it was suitably weird, she watched it to see if it was resolved, and if it wasn’t it would be passed along, possibly through some other link so they couldn’t trace it back to her. She adored them like they were her own flesh and blood family, but they’d no doubt be overwhelming if they found out she was getting into ‘the business’.  


This case she’d spotted deserved their attention.  


She had no idea what was going in Winchester World; she cared, of course, but she couldn’t exactly judge whether it was an appropriate time for her to call them up. Then again, most times weren’t okay ones with them, so there wasn’t really much of a question in the matter.  


Charlie flipped down the microphone of her headset with one hand while the fingers of the other danced across her laptop’s keys. With a few simple taps, one of the Winchesters’ numbers had been dialled – Dean’s primary private one, to be precise – and the ringing tone was playing in Charlie’s ears.  


No one answered, but she hadn’t been expecting anything different. After all, it was nearing one in the morning. Turning back and forth slightly in her chair, Charlie grinned to herself as she left a quick, simple message: “’Sup, bros? Call me back when you’ve got a minute. I’ve got something for you.”  


She had to give silent thanks to her mother. If she hadn’t given her the _Percy Jackson_ books all those years ago, Charlie wouldn’t have recognised the signs of quarrelling gods now. Admittedly, the way they were going about it was pretty damn weird, but they _were_ deities. She supposed they could be forgiven a little bit.  


And in all fairness, _Percy Jackson_ wasn’t accurate, not from what Charlie was seeing. Sure, they got the gods and goddesses right, but unless Rick Riordan had met them, they weren’t completely correct.  


In preparation for helping her boys out, Charlie stretched out the strains in her forearms and got down to typing up a file for them.

* * *

The first thing Dean saw of Charlie was the top of her bright head over a file she was holding upright in front of herself. She kicked her car door shut behind her and headed over, lowering her file so she could wave and grin at him. Dean raised a hand in return and, despite his surly mood, one corner of his lips tried to curl upwards.  


Ever since he’d admitted to releasing Crowley, he’d had very little positive communication with Kevin. It had been a week, but he was still receiving cold shoulders (from Kevin) and disappointed looks that were quickly hidden (all Sam). His brother had even taken him aside – _“Look, I get that you didn’t have much choice, but-” “Cram it, Sam; I don’t wanna talk about it anymore.”_ – but his brother’s unwilling forgiveness had done little to improve how he felt about it.  


The bunker had been an unpleasant place, to put it mildly.  


Sam had become the bridge between Kevin and Dean – not that there was much that tried to cross the channel; Dean wouldn’t apologise for it ( _”Dammit, I couldn’t bring him back here! This is meant to be secret!”_ ), and Kevin wouldn’t accept the ‘sorry’ that Dean wanted to say but couldn’t.  


When it had all first come to light, the argument had been quietly bubbling, but it had soon boiled up to something that was on the verge of a screaming match. That was when Sam had stepped in, guided Dean off to get rid of his bitterness in a less relationship-destroying way, and tried to explain it in calmer words to a furious Kevin. ( _”You weren’t there for what he did, Sam. Stop making excuses-” “I’m not making excuses. I’d just rather not have you two rip the bunker apart while you get this out of your systems.”_ )  


Needless to say, it hadn’t been a very good atmosphere for Sam to make his recovery in. He still wasn’t at his peak, but when Dean had stood in the doorway of the silent kitchen and played Charlie’s messages – it seemed that she’d become impatient after receiving no answer and had left multiple voicemails; it had been at the time when Kevin and Dean had started butting heads – they’d both agreed that Kevin sure as hell wasn’t going out into the field. Kevin had given the stony-faced nod of acknowledgement the decision needed before lowering his gaze back to his breakfast.  


That was how Sam and Dean found themselves in the tiny town Charlie had been waiting in. As their friend approached, Dean cast a glance over at his brother, worried. There were dark circles under his eyes and a haggard look about him, but Dean also saw the familiar determination that his brother so often wore.  


“You okay?” Dean asked before he could stop himself.  


Sam’s expression flickered into amusement briefly. “I’m fine. Stop hovering.”  


Sam could say that all he liked, but it wouldn’t stop Dean from doing it. They both knew that, but thankfully Sam seemed to decide against likening Dean to an anxious mother.  


Dean couldn’t even start to summon a retort before he suddenly had an armful of Charlie, the folder squashed between them as she gave him a tight hug. Before their last encounter, Dean might have nudged her off after a few seconds, but he knew what she’d done after they’d parted and even if he _was_ in a foul mood, he couldn’t be mean to Charlie. He returned the hug just as fiercely, and clapped her on the back when they separated.  


As she stepped back, Charlie gave him a knowing stare, one that said ‘ _I know what you were doing; thanks, but don’t baby me_ ’. It looked like he was getting that glare a lot today.  


“What, no hug for me?” Sam asked, raising an eyebrow.  


“Maybe when you’ve earned it,” Charlie shot back easily. “It’s a very exclusive club; badasses only.”  


It was a silly little thing, but the nature of the idea was a pick-me-up. Dean stood a bit straighter, some of the stress of the last week sliding off of his shoulders.  


“You heard the girl,” Dean added, a real grin spreading across his mouth now. “Better shape up, Sammy.”  


His brother’s other eyebrow joined the first, and Dean swore he heard him mutter, “God, help me, there are two of them now.”  


As fun as it was to annoy the crap out of Sam, Dean wasn’t actually up to it. He returned his attention to Charlie, who was looking pleased with herself. She glanced between the two brothers, and when she caught Dean’s eyes, she even wriggled a bit.  


Dean chuckled. “Go on. Talk before you explode.”  


Her breath came out in a rush, a little ‘phew!’ of relief following it. “Okay. And I will, just we can’t talk out here, not really.” She gestured vaguely at her ear, then tilted her head towards the centre of town. Dean took that to mean that they’d be overheard.  


Instead, she slapped the folder into Sam’s chest – he gave a little ‘oof’ of surprise - and turned on her heel to start back to her car. “Follow me,” she tossed over her shoulder.  


Having little choice, the two climbed back into the Impala and trailed after Charlie when her beaten-up motor rumbled to life. “Demanding,” Sam commented.  


“Don’t get excited, you’re not her type, remember?”  


“What- Oh, my God, _Dean!_ ”  


Maybe Dean had been lying when he thought he wasn’t in the mood to tease. 

* * *

The town was mostly falling to bits, judging by what Sam and Dean saw. Abandoned buildings were on every street, just a few having survived what looked like a storm – a handful of houses and shops at most, all of which seemed to have been raided.  


The route Charlie took was a winding one towards the alleys on the edge of town, where the structures all looked unsteady. Sam was silent beside Dean, even when he pointed certain features out, and it wasn’t until he heard the rustle of paper that he realised Sam was reading. He should’ve worked it out before; give the boy reading material, and he’d be done before the day was out.  


The last turning was between a wall and the back of what looked like an old library. As the last growls (or coughs) of the cars faded away, Sam and Dean joined Charlie by the heavy metal door that was the entrance. It was clearly a recent addition, but a shoddily done one. When she caught him looking, Charlie gave him a stare that kept him silent about it.  


The inside was gloomy; the windows had been boarded up, so Dean could only make out vague shapes. He went to take a torch from his pocket, but Charlie made a disapproving sound.  


“This is my base; you think I didn’t sort out the lighting?”  


“A base?” Sam questioned. There was a soft click as Charlie flipped the switch and set the dodgy bulbs in the ceiling alight. The light they gave off was yellowed and dim, but it was something. Dean spotted the remains of what must’ve been the back door in one corner.  


Charlie’s reply was a simple “Yep!” With another smile, she went through the next door. This one looked like it had been there for as long as the building, as it was rotting in places.  


The room opened up into the main part of the library. Bookshelves were stacked with tomes from floor to ceiling, most of them coated with a thick layer of dust, but some had been replaced recently. One corner of the room was a nest of blankets, pillows, and beanbags. In the centre was a desk with a laptop on it and a circle of books scattered around. Tucked into the corner to the left of the door was a rickety metal spiral staircase leading up to the next floor.  


“Welcome to my humble home!” Charlie announced, turning on the spot to grin at them. “Of course, it’s only temporary, but I’ve got a stable internet connection, it’s secure, and there’s a place just down the street that’s still got food that’s in date! Sure, it’s canned, but it’s better than nothing.”  


“Sigils?” Dean challenged.  


Charlie pointed at the floor, her lips twisting into a smile that was more sheepish. “I had to carve it into the floor. It’s only the basic stuff, but I figured that’s better than nothing.”  


“Not bad,” Sam admitted as his gaze roved across the crude markings in the wooden boards. The lines were jagged, splinters pointing out from the little hollows, but they would work. With that inspected, Sam turned his attention to the books, tilting his head sideways to read the spines.  


Leaning against the wall by the door, Dean folded his arms and got comfortable. “So, how long have you been out here anyway?” It was clear from the trouble she’d gone to with the security that Charlie was planning on being here for a while, if she hadn’t been already.  


“About a week.” She sat at her desk, swivelling the chair around again to face Dean. “I thought I’d get a good look at what was happening before I told you guys.”  


Dean raised an eyebrow. “Since when do you watch for hunts?”  


Charlie stared right back. “Why not? I know I said I didn’t want to get involved, but the world could use a helping hand, right?”  


It wasn’t quite as simple as that, unfortunately, so Dean quietly made a mental note to put her in touch with other hunters before they left. Garth was his first choice; as ridiculous as the guy might be, he was a pretty good hunter when it came down to it.  


“Okay, so, the case.” Charlie clapped her hands once, bringing them back to the matter at hand. “This town we’re in? It’s not totally empty. Some people are still around, but they’re not exactly… _people_.”  


Sam circled around to stand by Dean. He didn’t recline against the wall like his brother, instead sliding his hands into his pockets. “What do you mean?”  


“Well, I hacked into the town’s security cameras.” Charlie twirled around and reached for her keyboard, tapping away quickly to bring up various menus and lines of coding. It only took a few seconds for the footage in question to be displayed. “That’s why I’ve been here so long; I’ve been watching for anything weird and compiling film, so I can compare it to what we already know about.” She glanced over her shoulder, giving them a significant look. “And this is where it gets interesting.”  


She flapped her hand at the two of them in a vague gesture for them to come closer while she narrated. Dean perched on the edge of her desk, ignoring the swat she aimed at his leg.  


“This place has always been kinda rundown,” she continued, “but it’s only been in the last week that it got this bad. A few days ago, everyone was still functioning mostly normally.” Charlie took the cameras to that point in time, showing a handful of people going about their daily rituals.  


“Slowly, some of them just started going… I don’t know, it was like they were bitten by some kind of bug.” Charlie shrugged, at a loss for any better description. As she’d said it, she’d rolled forward the tape; some of the people seemed to have a switch flipped in them, as they quite literally just turned on the other half. They made weapons out of what they could reach and simply attacked.  


While the fighting raged on silently in black and white, Charlie looked up at them both. “So, what do you think?”  


“Croatoan?” Sam suggested.  


Dean shook his head. “No, they’re going for the kill. I can’t see anyone trying to switch blood.”  


“I have a theory?” Charlie piped up, raising her voice and hand like she was trying to ask a question. “Also, I’m not done explaining what happened yet, so shut up.”  


“Sorry. Carry on.” Sam gestured towards the laptop.  


She smiled smugly. “Thanks. Now, if we skip forward a couple of hours… we get this.”  


It appeared to be night in the video now. There was a small group of citizens pacing across the screen, again holding various weapons – only, they were the genuine things this time. Knives and guns were the most common, but some even had things like shovels and pitchforks. They were wary, careful.  


They looked like they were hunting.  


The comparison wasn’t lost on either Sam or Dean. The latter leaned in a little closer, frowning. “That’s planned,” he stated. “They’re tracking. And from the looks of things, that’s a different set of people.”  


“Ooh, you’re on the ball today!” Charlie grinned up at Dean, who gave her a playfully annoyed stare in return. “Yep, totally new group.”  


“So what makes you think you know what it is?” Sam asked. “So far, it just looks like-”  


“Half the town going crazy and the other half exterminating them?” Charlie interrupted. “That’s what I thought, until I saw this.”  


_Click,_ and a new feed was onscreen.  


“These are the guys that attacked first. Do they look like they’re out of their minds to you?”  


They didn’t. They were on the other side of town in what appeared to be some sort of camp, and every single one of them looked perfectly calm. There was even a bit of laughter.  


When Charlie’s question was met with silence from both brothers, she spun her chair around; the movement was so quick that they both jerked back in surprise. She glanced between them, expectant. “Oh, come on, is it not obvious? It was in the _file I gave you_ , Sam.”  


“Yeah, what was even in that thing?” Dean added, shooting a look across at him.  


“It was about the Greek gods.” It was still tucked under Sam’s arm; he balanced it on a raised forearm, turning the pages for inspiration. “I know we’ve had run-ins with them lately, but I don’t get what this has got to do with it.”  


Charlie sighed heavily, sounding put-upon. “I think it was a tactical move. I spent some time as a queen in a war, remember? This thing _stinks_ of war. Killing those people was like someone trying to get rid of as much of the competition as they could in one go.  


“But then they left some of them alive.” She jerked her head back towards the laptop, where the first group was still sat placidly. “If it was a proper fight, they would’ve killed them all.”  


She stopped her explanation to hold up a finger. “Pop quiz: which Greek god and-or goddess do we know is all about war and tactics?”  


Dean turned a teasing grin on Sam. “Your time to shine, smartypants.”  


Sam gave him that old vaguely irritated eye-roll again, but answered anyway. “Ares is the God of War, and Athena’s the Goddess of… Wit, I think? But she’s also a tactician.”  


“Something like that,” Charlie confirmed. “It took a while, but I figured it all out. Those two even had some kind of fight with each other a while back, and to make a long story short, Athena favoured the winning side and Ares’ guys lost. I thought they might be having a rematch or something.”  


Dean smiled, impressed, as he clapped her on the shoulder. “Nice work, Charlie. Just one question, though: what do we do now?”  


“That’s… kinda where I stopped being on a roll,” she admitted. “I have no idea what we can do about them.”  


“It’s a start.” Dean stood again, ruffling her hair. “Maybe we could talk to some of the people out there and get a look at what they’re like. Hell, maybe we could even talk to one of the gods.”  


Charlie nodded and, all business again, went about displaying her network on her laptop so she could keep track of them. “Your best bet is probably Athena; Ares might just kill you.”  


“Yeah, if they don’t want visitors we’ll be back to square one, probably full of bullets,” Sam said dryly.  


“Aw, come on, Sammy.” Dean elbowed him as he passed on his way to the door. “We’re not part of the game. How bad can it be?”  


* * *

Needless to say, that became the understatement of the century. It was foolish to think for even a second that they could get the jump on a Greek goddess. Despite the fact that it was only to scope out the area and track down someone to get another angle on the whole thing, it went spectacularly downhill.  


The Winchesters were armed, but uncertainly so. It seemed like the people on either side were just influenced by the gods, so it would be stupid to attack to kill them in this state. _Ask questions first, shoot later,_ was the mantra Dean silently repeated to himself.  


It just didn’t work out like that.  


Neither Sam nor Dean were sure what alerted Athena’s grunts to their presence. One moment they were alone in the abandoned town, and the next they were surrounded, the sound of cocking guns fading into the silence.  


“Crap,” Dean said.  


Sam managed to (barely) resist the urge to turn a glare on him.  


“Drop your weapons!” a high voice ordered. A snarky comment was on Dean’s lips, but it practically leaped back down his throat when he saw that it came from a goddamn _child_. Athena was using a _child_. She couldn’t have been much older than eleven or twelve, and she was pointing a rifle at them.  


It wasn’t news that the Greek gods were heartless – the whole deal with Prometheus and his kid was still fresh in Dean’s mind – but to use a random child…  


Oh, he was going to kill that bitch.  


Slowly, Sam and Dean placed their guns on the ground. The fact that there was an eager glint in the eyes of these people didn’t encourage Dean at all, but what else could he do? If he kept hold of his weapon, there was a 100% chance he’d be full of bullets in the blink of an eye.  


“‘ _What’s the worst that could happen, Sam?_ ’” Sam muttered sarcastically, shooting a furious stare at Dean as they raised their empty hands. “Oh, I don’t know, how about _we get friggin’ caught_?”  


“Silence!” the child squeaked. Bizarrely, despite the fact that it was, technically, just a kid ordering them around, there was an air of command about her that suited her.  


She paced forwards, lowering her rifle, confident that everyone else would keep theirs trained on the brothers. It wasn’t until she raised her head and Dean saw telltale pink splotches that he realised that the child was a vessel. Like Lucifer had been using Nick, Athena was using this kid to speak to her followers directly.  


However, before she’d even gone a few steps, she froze, gaze lifting to Sam. It drifted to Dean, considering, before fixing on the younger of the two. “The Winchesters…” she murmured.  


Dean was expecting anger. They _had_ pretty much killed Zeus, her father, after all. But there was only idle contemplation on her features.  


Then she gave that unnerving smile that always looked creepy on kids, the one Dean had seen far too much. His stomach dropped, but protective anger flared up in its place when he followed the line of her stare: it was still on Sam.  


“I apologise,” she said, and it sickened Dean because she even looked sincere. “This won’t be a permanent fixture.”  


“Hey, hey, hey,” Dean growled, dropping his arms and neatly stepping in front of his brother. He ignored Sam’s grumbles. “What the hell d’you think you’re doing?”  


Her expression became positively glacial. “Step aside.”  


Dean raised his chin. “No.”  


There was the soft _whoosh_ of air, and then-  


And then Dean promptly found himself flying to the ground, landing with a force that left him winded. His head hit the deck too, starting up one hell of a splitting pain at the back and a ringing in his ears. As he wheezed for breath, he wondered when being tossed to the ground without a touch had become the norm for him.  


“Dean!” Sam gasped. The older Winchester grunted in reply, rolling onto his back and clutching his abdomen. Sam’s cry had been faint, like Dean had been hearing it from underwater. He squeezed his eyes shut and willed the world to stop tilting sickeningly. Something was off, he noticed fuzzily; it was like the effects of his injuries were all being turned up to ten, stopping him from shaking it off as he would have in any other situation.  


He picked up the sounds of a brief scuffle, his brother’s heavy footsteps the easiest to pick up through the slight tremble of the ground. His hearing was coming back in dribbles, slowly trickling into focus like he was turning the wheels of a microscope. There was a thud to one side of him, and he turned over to see the girl’s gun, abandoned in the dirt.  


With lethargic movements, Dean uncurled one arm and reached for it.  


He stifled a hiss of pain as a boot came down on his hand – not hard enough to break bones, but it still hurt – holding it in place just centimetres away from the gun’s barrel. Angrily, Dean followed the boot to the leg, the leg to the torso, and then the torso to the head, until he could see which of the sons of bitches had come to watch him squirm.  


Sam?  


No, it wasn’t Sam. Dean knew his brother far too well, had seen him possessed by a whole host of different things over the years. This wasn’t Sam. The expression was too pitying.  


Once again, Dean was reminded of Lucifer, specifically the way he’d looked down on his future self’s body as he broke his neck.  


He crouched, sliding his shoe off of Dean’s fingers with a scrape. Now that they were level, Dean could hear the laboured breathing and see the trails of blood coming from his brother’s nostrils. His nose didn’t look broken.  


“Do you know why I picked your brother over you, Dean?”  


Oh, God, here it came. The speech from the Big Bad Wolf. Dean had had enough of that shit, and it showed in the withering look he gave the creature that was wearing Sam. “Let me guess, you’re Athena?”  


She smiled, looking _proud_ somehow, but it looked wrong, so wrong, on Sam’s face in that way. “Of course. But you didn’t answer my question.” Dean remained firmly silent, falling back on glaring now, so she sighed and answered for him. “Because he’s the smart one. It seems like I chose the correct brother, doesn’t it?”  


Maybe another time, that would have been a blow to Dean’s ego, but it wasn’t now.  


Athena placed her hand on his cheek, and Dean felt all of the aches and pains she’d delivered to him heal. He jerked his head away, biting back a growled swear. “You’re like Ares,” she mused. “Which is very handy, I suppose. I’ll deliver you back to your little rabbit hole, but I’ll be borrowing dear Sam for a while. I hope you don’t mind; he’ll be back in one piece.”  


“No, don’t you dare, you motherf-!” 

* * *

Dean was quite literally dropped outside of the old library. Athena dumped him unceremoniously in the dirt, apologised again (while Dean just snarled wordlessly), and then vanished, leaving Dean to pull himself off of the ground and stumble towards the wall. At least she had the decency to give him their weapons back. “Son of a bitch!” he spat at the sky, but received no answer.  


Before he’d even set foot inside, he was met with the business end of yet another gun. He was really getting sick of them. Dean sighed, opening his mouth to tell Charlie to _back the fuck off before I lose my mind_ , when she beat him to it. “Where’s Sam?”  


“Athena,” Dean grunted grumpily. He moved to nudge past her, but she stepped to the side, touching the muzzle of her weapon to his chest. Dean allowed himself a tired smile. “I actually thought you were gonna let me past for a second there.”  


She gave him a withering look. “Shut up.”  


Once the tests were done and both of them were satisfied that the other wasn’t going to kill them, Charlie let Dean back into the library. He immediately helped himself to her makeshift bed, flopping down onto the pillows and draping his arm across his face with a groan.  


“So, what actually happened out there?” Charlie asked, leaning on the corner of her desk. “I lost the feed.”  


“We were outnumbered and outgunned.” Dean glared at the ceiling, like it was its fault that they’d been so completely crushed. “We didn’t even get to the camp. It was ridiculous. We were so unprepared, it was just…” He shook his head, grimacing. “Then Athena decided she’d wear Sam for a while because he’s ‘the smart one’.”  


“Aw, are you sad that she thought you were just a pretty face?” Charlie teased, trying to lighten the situation, but let it drop when Dean turned a blank, exhausted look on her. She shifted, giving him a sheepish sort of smile. “So, what’s the plan?”  


“For now? Research. I’m pretty sure Ares _is_ here, by the way, she mentioned him. _’You’re like Ares’_ , or somethin’.”  


Charlie pushed off from the table to begin searching the spines of the books, pulling one from the shelf every now and then. Dean stood to give her a hand. “Well… if she picked Sam out of the two of you because he’s smart, do you think Ares might do the same to you?”  


The soft thud of Dean’s footsteps fell silent. Charlie turned to see Dean with his brows furrowed, thinking it over. “He’s the God of War, right?” he checked, raising an eyebrow.  


“Yeah.” Charlie dropped her gaze to one of her books, running a finger over the worn cover. “It fits, I guess. I mean, you’re the one that… you like fighting and hunting, don’t you?”  


Dean nodded after a pause. “Yeah.” It was something he’d probably only ever discuss with Charlie, in all honesty. She wouldn’t give him that look he’d probably get from Sam, the one that was slightly disapproving. As much as he loved his brother, they were both Winchesters; talking about that sort of thing was something they didn’t do.  


Thankfully, Charlie didn’t pursue it. She just nodded and went back to book collecting.  


Neither of the two spoke again until they were sat cross-legged on the floor, books, paper, and writing utensils scattered around them. Charlie’s laptop was open on the edge of the circle with a Word document open, the cursor blinking at them on the blank page. Slowly, they began building up their knowledge of the two gods who were waiting to battle it out.  


Dean thought that they would only be focused on the research, but he was proven wrong when Charlie snapped the book he’d been reading shut and leaned forwards. “Okay, what’s eating you?”  


He blinked at her, surprised. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe the fact that a freaking _god_ is wearing my brother?”  


But Charlie shook her head, rolling her eyes. “I know that’s gonna be on your mind, I’m not an idiot. I’m talking about the rest of you! It was so obvious when you arrived that you were moping. It was ridiculous. Now…” She trailed off, the laughter fading. “Now it’s just sad, Dean.”  


He bristled, yanking the book back and turning to the page he was on, never mind that he’d been staring at it for a good few minutes without taking anything in earlier. “I’m _fine_.”  


Charlie sat up, resting her palms on her knees. “You know you can talk to me, right? I’m not gonna go spouting anything to anyone. I’d sound crazy if I did.” There was a light attempt at humour, but it fell flat on Dean’s ears. When he didn’t respond, she sighed, eyebrows drawing together. “I’m your friend. Come on, it’ll do you some good to get whatever it is off your chest.”  


“What, so is this a sleepover now?” Dean scowled. “Are we gonna paint our nails next?”  


“Maybe next time. I didn’t bring any polish.” She grinned, but it quickly dropped back to her more sombre look from before. “Just open up for once, would you?”  


It took a few beats, but then Dean’s shoulders slumped. He _did_ need to blow off some steam, and seeing as Charlie was offering…  


He told her everything. He told her about letting Crowley go and how Kevin still wasn’t speaking to him, about hovering around Sam, about how Castiel was still missing. He might have spent a little longer on the angels falling and Castiel’s subsequent disappearance than he’d care to admit, but once the words started they just didn’t stop flowing. The laptop blinked on, forgotten.  


“… What if he didn’t even make it, Charlie? What if he’s-”  


“Okay, stop.” Charlie held up her hand, wincing. “Don’t go there, Dean. Don’t even think about that, ‘cause you’re gonna end up driving yourself crazy if you do. I think you’d probably know if he didn’t come out in one piece.”  


Dean’s teeth clicked together as he looked down. A sheet of paper had been methodically torn into squares during his speech; now it was a little pile of shreds between his feet. He poked it, creating a crater in the centre.  


“Give him time. I’m sure he’ll be back soon,” Charlie added quietly.  


Dean’s reply was barely above a whisper. “It’s been a week.”  


“And he could’ve landed anywhere,” she pointed out. “From what I’ve heard, it sounds like the first thing he’s gonna do is find you and Sam. Stop worrying, okay? You’ve got enough on your plate, and he doesn’t sound like the kind of guy who’d just give up.”  


A fond smile tugged on Dean’s lips. “Yeah. He’s the little angel that could.”  


Charlie leaned over and slapped his shoulder. “That’s the spirit! C’mon, we can’t have you being all blue. He’ll be back before long. Now you’re not as cheerful as a pile of rocks, we can get back to working out what we can do with our little problem.”  


With that, they fell back into companionable silence. This time, Dean raised his shoulders a little more, as if a heavy weight had been taken from them. And, for some bizarre reason, the tiny grin remained on his face, refusing to leave.  


They managed to assemble a reasonable amount of information on Athena and Ares. By the time they had enough to go on, however, Charlie was stifling yawns and Dean was about ready to drop. Admitting defeat, they packed up everything, put Charlie’s laptop in a safe Dean hadn’t noticed under her desk, and then tried to make enough room for two in Charlie’s nest. They ended up lying with Dean’s head by Charlie’s feet, and vice versa; Charlie wriggled her toes in Dean’s face until he batted them away.  


Dean stared up at the ceiling, tracing patterns with his eyes in the old wood over his head. His smile faded when he realised that he was there, joking and sleeping, while his brother was still out there, apparently possessed by Athena. Despite Charlie’s attempts to cheer him up, everything came pressing in again. He closed his eyes tightly, brow crinkling with the effort.  


“Hey, Dean, can I ask you a question?”  


The words came from right by his ear, making him jump about a foot in the air with surprise. He cursed, eyelids flicking open to see Charlie on her stomach with her head down by his now, legs crossed at the ankles in the air, grinning at him.  
“How’d you get so stealthy?” he demanded.  


She winked. “A girl’s gotta have her secrets. Anyway, you didn’t answer my question.”  


Giving her an annoyed glare, Dean turned onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow. “Sure, go ahead.”  


Charlie’s smile became devilish. “Have you ever, you know, been curious about dudes?” Dean stared at her silently, eyebrows high on his forehead. She sighed and added, “Romantically, sexually, however. Whichever way.”  


Dean’s intelligent reply was, “Um.” And then, recovering himself, “What, are we doing this instead ‘cause we can’t turn our nails pink and sparkly?”  


“Obviously. We need to keep some sleepover traditions.”  


“Traditions _for girls_.”  


“Shut up, asshole, and answer the question. Nothing said will leave the room.”  


Well, he’d basically talked himself into a corner, hadn’t he?  


“Yeah,” he finally let out. “But it’s never been a big thing. Like, okay, I had the occasional thing, but I like girls, okay? Boobs all the way, man.”  


It took a second to realise that Charlie was snickering. “What?” he demanded.  


She ducked her head, hiding behind her vibrant hair. “You basically just confessed to a little bit of bi, and now you’re giving me the ‘I’m totally straight’ speech. Dude, I can smell gay vibes a mile off.”  


Dean stared at the side of her head for a little longer, then rolled over. “Goodnight, Charlie.”  


“Aw, come on-”  


“ _Goodnight._ ” 

* * *

Dean thought that the situation he and Charlie were in was a bit like the dream she’d been put in by the djinn the last time they’d met. They were both armed heavily (Dean wasn’t going to take any risks this time), and standing out in front of their base. The streets were silent.  


Dean wouldn’t have been surprised if tumbleweed had rolled past.  


The plan was to track down Athena and talk to her. After what Charlie had theorised about Ares and Dean, neither of them were willing to risk it. Athena was their best bet at getting the full story, and after all, she still had Sam. Dean was still pissed about that.  


Everything fell to pieces before they even took a single step. There was a yell that was an unmistakable battle cry, and then a _swarm_ of people came from both directions.  


Dean’s stomach dropped when guns started cracking with the shots of bullets.  


He let his own gun dangle from one hand as he threw the other arm around Charlie to yank her back, ignoring her surprised squeak. He pulled them both behind the wreck of a car, just to be safe; he could plainly see that no bullets were pointed their way, but he couldn’t take that risk.  


“Crap,” Charlie hissed, curling her hands tight enough around her gun to make Dean worry. He reached over and gently peeled her fingers back; she clutched his hand instead, but he didn’t pull away, not even when it started to hurt.  


“Charlie,” he said quietly. When she didn’t respond, he repeated her name, sharper. “Charlie!”  


She swallowed, finally looking over at him. She flinched when a bullet pinged off of the other side of the car. “Y-yeah?”  


Dean gave her hand a little squeeze. “You’ve gotta pull yourself together, okay? I know it’s terrifying – hell, I’m scared, too – but you need to keep a hold of yourself. There are innocent people out there that need saving. We need to find Athena.” He tried to give her what he hoped was a comforting smile, despite the fact that he could feel the urge to fight singing in his blood. “Remember Plan B? You can always go back and talk to me through an earpiece.”  


Charlie seemed to find new strength, as she shook her head firmly and released Dean’s hand. He shook it out to rid it of the lingering ache. “No, I can do it. I _can_. You need backup, and no one else is stupid enough to do it.”  


Dean’s smile became a proud grin. “That’s my girl. Now-”  


“ _Dean!_ ”  


He barely had time to register her warning shout before he was turning, falling backwards as he swung his gun up to direct the muzzle at the person behind them. As he tumbled over, Charlie thwacked his side hard, as he’d fallen on top of her.  


It was an elderly man, but there was a look glittering in his eyes that Dean didn’t like. He looked frail, and yet he was easily carrying a large, heavy-looking hammer, even though his arms trembled with the effort of lifting it. His pale eyes settled on Dean, a grin forming. Several of his teeth were missing, while the others were yellowed.  


“How… fortunate…” he said, a slight cackle in his voice. “I heard you were around… Perfect!”  


“Do I know you?” Dean quirked an eyebrow, confused.  


“Dean,” Charlie whispered, elbowing him. “Two things. One: _that’s Ares, dumbass!_ Two: get the hell off me, you’re heavy!”  


“Shit, sorry.” He pushed himself up, freeing Charlie. She breathed a sigh of relief, but inhaled quickly again when she saw what Dean didn’t in his distraction.  


The man crumpled, now unable to hold himself. The hammer hit the ground with a metallic thud, catching Dean’s attention. He cursed again, flicking his gun back up-  


And then a very different kind of tension lined his muscles. His shoulders straightened, his head raised, and he breathed in deeply. The gun was set beside his feet, only for him to arm himself by grasping the handle of the hammer instead. He stood, tilting his neck as he removed the kinks in the muscles.  


Charlie timidly asked, “Dean?”  


When her friend looked down at her disdainfully, she almost curled into a tiny ball. However, she summoned her courage and raised her firearm in what she hoped was a threatening manner, but Dean simply snorted, lip curling. “Ares,” he corrected. He turned, his boots crunching on the gravel as he left.  


“… Crap.” 

* * 

Plan A had gone terribly. Plan B wasn’t possible. That left Charlie with zero options.  


She’d returned to the library after Ares had left with Dean, taking both guns with her. Now she watched on the monitors as he led the attack, wielding the hammer with familiarity. Another camera displayed Athena further back, out of the fray.  


And Charlie? She felt like crap for abandoning them both in a fight, but what could she do? She’d only get herself killed if she went out there. She needed to _think_.  


She’d been scanning the notes she and Dean had made on Athena and Ares over and over, but nothing was coming up. All that seemed familiar was that this was an old feud, a battle between the two gods that had occurred before; Ares had rooted for the losing side, while Athena helped out the winners. They were, technically, both gods of war, but Athena was more interested in tactics while Ares lived for the violence of battle.  


That was all Charlie had. She moved on, switching to relations of theirs instead. She already knew that Ares and Aphrodite had a thing, so maybe the Goddess of Love would be willing to step in?  


It wouldn’t hurt to try. 

* * *

Ares’ vessel was dotted with the blood of Athena’s warriors, but it only made his grin widen until his teeth were bared in a feral snarl. He could faintly feel the human the body belonged to rebelling through the haze of bloodlust that had descended over him. By all rights, the human – Dean Winchester – should be enjoying it. Ares had sensed the longing for battle in the human’s soul, the itch that he couldn’t scratch without some form of violence, and he’d recognised it in himself.  


And yet there were protests. Ares didn’t understand why; these humans that he was destroying were Athena’s. She would undoubtedly return them to full health afterwards. If the Winchester should be worrying about anyone, he should be concerned for Ares’ own numbers. In the god’s opinion, they had died honourable deaths, and to bring them back would be insulting.  


Didn’t the Winchester understand the glory of dying in battle?  


Another fell to his hammer, the head of which was already painted red with blood. The rush of killing flooded his veins, making him hiss in satisfaction.  


The Winchester’s body knew how to fight. The muscles were pleasantly strong, even without Ares’ assistance, and they served his needs well. It couldn’t have been more perfect.  


A gap in the heaving mass of bodies allowed him to catch the eye of Athena. Unlike him, she wasn’t in the thick of it; she was directing from the sidelines. Fury pulsed in Ares’ gut. A true warrior would be out fighting, not sitting away from it all.  


Ares purposefully ignored the thrill of fear that came from the Winchester when he started forwards. The hammer was gripped tightly in his hand, knuckles turning white around the hilt. With it, he would deliver a punishing blow to Athena so she would be forced to fight back or allow her vessel to crumble.  


_Don’t you dare hurt him, you son of a bitch!_ Dean snarled, pressing at Ares’ control. But his hold was iron, locked in place, and no matter how hard the Winchester threw himself against it, it would not bend until Ares allowed it.  


No doubt the Winchester’s brother shared the same sentiments as his sibling. From what Ares knew, the two often thought along the same lines as one another, especially when it came to any danger either of them were in.  


It didn’t concern him, so he brushed it off.  


As he approached Athena, it became apparent that it was irritating that he had to look up to meet her gaze. Did she really have to select the taller of the two possible vessels? The pulse of heat in his blood reminded Ares that yes, she did have to; Dean Winchester was the bloodthirsty one, even if he wouldn’t admit it fully, and Sam Winchester was the tactician. It was almost a perfect fit.  


“Athena,” he greeted coldly.  


A flicker of amusement passed through Athena’s gaze. “Ares,” she replied, inclining her head. “I assume you’ve come to lecture me?” She glanced down at the hammer, distaste flickering across her features when she saw the splatters of red.  


Ares used the opportunity to scan Athena for weapons. All he could see was the sheath of a sword tied around her vessel’s waist. He knew that Athena was a quick draw and that she would likely be expecting an attack, so he would have to be just as swift.  


Their eyes met again briefly. Athena’s drifted to the side, eyebrows raising and lips parting, and Ares used this as his opening. His arm twitched as he began to raise the hammer-  


Only to have a hand rest on his shoulder, stopping him in place. He knew that touch, even though it was from an entirely different body.  


Aphrodite.  


He turned his head towards her, loathe to remove his gaze from Athena, but he needn’t have worried; Aphrodite came around to his front, a gentle smile on her lips. She was using the redheaded woman Ares had seen with Dean Winchester earlier. He didn’t think that that vessel suited Aphrodite very well physically, but he could sense that there was something content about her and the girl in their shared form.  


Her hand moved to his cheek, cupping it. “Ares,” she murmured, soothing.  


While the battle raged on behind them, it didn’t call to Ares as strongly. It was like Aphrodite had muted it, distorting the pull. The crack of gunshot and thud of bodies was still there, but it didn’t seize Ares with the desire to throw himself in headfirst.  


It was with a rush of surprise that Ares realised the look on Aphrodite’s face wasn’t positive at all. She seemed sad, almost… _disappointed_.  


She raised an eyebrow, clearly satisfied that the message had gotten through. Ares stepped back, using the wall of the nearest building to support himself. Aphrodite spoke to Athena briefly but Ares couldn’t hear. After a short discussion, Athena nodded and left her vessel. The younger Winchester fell to his hands and knees, coughs making his frame shake. Aphrodite comforted him until he seemed to be in less danger.  


Ares saw all of this through a haze. _Aphrodite wasn’t pleased with his fighting._ Usually she would praise him but this time…  


It stung.  


Suddenly, the face of Aphrodite’s vessel was filling his vision again. She smiled serenely at him, palms pressing against his cheeks. “Ares.” When he grunted, acknowledging that he was listening, she continued, “You must return to Olympus.”  


He jerked back in surprise, accidentally knocking his head against the wall. There was a short moment of pain, but Aphrodite swept her fingers across the side, removing it. “But the battle-” he started.  


“Is no longer happening.” Her voice was stern now, firm. “These humans had nothing to do with it. Neither of you had any right to take these bodies, either. Athena has already gone home, Ares; you should join her.”  


Another protest rose on Ares’ tongue, but Aphrodite tilted his head down and pressed her lips between his eyebrows. He closed his eyes so he didn’t have to see her expression. “Go,” she whispered.  


Ares left. Dean Winchester slumped against the wall, groaning, “Crap.”  


Laughter came from Aphrodite, accompanied by weak chuckles from Sam. He cracked an eye open, glaring at the two of them. “What? You got the good deal out of this, Sam. _I_ ended up stomping around a friggin’ battlefield with a hammer.” Both eyelids flicked open then, worry forcing him to stand upright. “What about all the people?”  


“Healed,” Aphrodite said. “Athena righted everything before she went home.”  


It was then that Dean noticed that yet another Greek goddess was in one of his friends. He sighed, rubbing his temple in an effort to get rid of the low, throbbing ache. “What the hell is it with you guys and possessing us? I thought you had your own bodies.”  


“This is far quicker.” Aphrodite shrugged. “As much as I would like to explain the rules, I can’t; I have to return to Olympus before Ares and Athena start another war.”  


However, instead of vanishing, Aphrodite hesitated, her smile becoming mischievous. “But first…” Dean froze as she leaned forwards, placing her lips at his ear. “There’s someone in your future for you, Dean Winchester.”  


Then Aphrodite fell against him, only it wasn’t her anymore, because there was a muffled “Crap!” against his shoulder. 

* * *

Saying goodbye to Charlie again sucked. Dean didn’t want to let her go, not when she was giving him a fierce hug, slapping his back as well. Until, that was, she grinned and muttered, “When Castiel gets back, you take him to dinner.”  


Dean was lost for words for a moment, jaw flapping, until he simply denied it vehemently. Aphrodite’s words drifted back into his head, but he threw them off impatiently. It didn’t mean anything; the Greek gods had never done anything for him but cause trouble, so why should he listen to one now?  


Before they left, they gave Charlie the necessary information to contact Garth. If she was going to really get into the hunter thing, it would be best if she had someone to look out for her. She made noises about it until they reminded her that hunters worked best when they had the support of others.  


She waved them off before ducking back into the library. As they left the town, Dean noticed that people were slowly rebuilding everything already, putting it all back where it should be.  


He knew what Sam was going to ask the instant he turned in his seat.  


“What did Aphrodite say to you, Dean?”  


Dean shot a cool look across at him. “What did it feel like to have a girl in you again?”  


“Oh, my God-”  


Dean turned up _Back in Black_ so he couldn’t hear Sam’s protests.


	3. Homeward Bound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs I listened to while writing this chapter:
> 
> A Nervous Tic Motion Of The Head To The Left - Andrew Bird  
> Gunslinger - Avenged Sevenfold

Another week went by without event. After coming home – and didn’t the idea of home just send a warm tingle down Dean’s spine? – from Charlie’s case, it seemed that not only was Kevin a little more at ease around him again, but Sam looked slightly better. Everything was settling, albeit uneasily.

Now it was morning, and Dean was the only person awake. Kevin had passed out on the sofa at some point during the night, and the last he’d seen of Sam was when he’d gone to bed. Dean was up first out of everyone _again_ , so the task of cooking breakfast fell to him. 

It was just when he was about to take his first sip of coffee, his loaded fork of bacon hovering in front of him, that he heard the knocking at the door. 

Dean frowned, staying perfectly still as he ran through a mental list of everyone who it might be, eventually coming up with zero answers. He was almost tempted to think- 

_No._

It had been two weeks, two (horribly) long weeks. Today wouldn’t be any different. 

Uneasy, Dean left his food and retrieved a handgun from the shooting range. He ran through the motions of checking it without even noticing. It was second nature to him now; it was the first thing he did when he picked up a firearm with the intention of using it. 

Treading lightly – although he doubted that whoever was out there could hear him, but he couldn’t be too careful – he crept towards the door. The knocking came again in the form of three hard, sharp bangs. 

And then a voice. 

“Sam? Dean?” 

Throwing caution to the wind, Dean leaped forwards in a flurry of motion to throw the door open, swinging it wide to reveal their visitor. Of course, the muzzle of the gun came up, but there was a slowness to the motion that implied his reluctance to do so. 

He looked worn, tired, and a little bit thin under the coat, and judging by the scruff on his chin coupled with a few patches of dirt smeared across his skin, he could do with a shower. Relief flickered through familiar blue eyes as they performed a similar examination of Dean. His messy hair was even wilder than usual, but it was a little limp; a wash would be beneficial to it. Dean saw the pale white of a scar underneath his chin, too. 

The hunter exhaled. Tension he hadn’t noticed in his shoulders and spine melted away, leaving him feeling boneless. The sensation doubled when a gruff voice greeted, “Dean.” 

Castiel was home. 

* * *

Castiel barely had time to open his mouth before he was enveloped in Dean’s arms. The hunter dragged him inside, slamming the door shut behind the two of them – how Dean managed to accomplish that while still holding onto Castiel, he didn’t know, because he was too busy carefully reigning himself in. 

The familiar wash of Dean’s scent – the faint aroma of coffee, a soft tickle of gunpowder, and something tingly that was just all Dean Winchester – was one of the first things that hit Castiel when he was pulled into the hug. The next was the warmth that seemed to radiate from him. Then, finally, was the quiet rumble of his disbelieving laugh and his murmur of, “Fucking hell, Cas, _you’re here_.” 

Castiel didn’t move as much as he could have. He did, however, twist his arms up between them, one hand curling into Dean’s shirt slightly while the other rested on his shoulder. After all that time of heading to this one spot, all of the running and starving and sleepless nights, it was difficult to let it sink in that he didn’t have to keep moving anymore. 

He was home. 

Dean released him shortly after, so Castiel let go of his shirt. Dean’s hands came up to rest on his upper arms. They squeezed perhaps a little tighter than was comfortable, but Castiel didn’t mind. 

“Are you okay?” Dean asked, tipping his head towards Castiel slightly. 

He nodded silently. All Castiel was doing was drinking in Dean’s presence. It had been a long and hard way back, and now that he was here, he realised how exhausted he was – physically and emotionally, both being fairly new experiences for him. Castiel was certain that Dean could read all of that from him in a glance, so there wasn’t any need to elaborate. 

However, Dean seemed satisfied. He grinned that wide grin that was rarely seen on his face now, one that was made of joy in its purest form, from the happiness of having something go his way for once. It made him look like the man he must’ve been before Hell. The corners of Castiel’s lips pinched as they turned upwards in a tiny smile in return. 

Slinging his arm around Castiel’s shoulders, Dean dragged him inside, still beaming. He pulled him through to the kitchen, where he made him sit down at the table (and, as Castiel was still having trouble taking his gaze off of his friend, he noticed that once they passed a certain point Dean relaxed even further, which was when he remembered that there were various sigils and signs throughout the bunker to keep out evil). 

Dean sat across from him, letting go so he could fold his arms in front of himself, and Castiel immediately felt the loss. It wasn’t that he was feeling clingy, but rather he’d missed the affectionate gestures. True, he hadn’t done much to be gifted with them recently, but after having them again Castiel found he liked them. It felt like home. 

“How did you even get here?” Dean asked, the words more breathed than said, like he didn’t believe Castiel was really there. 

“I knew the location of the bunker,” Castiel provided. “It was a simple matter of finding a map and taking several buses.” It wasn’t until Dean blinked at him blankly that he thought it might have been a rhetorical question, but then his friend snorted, his lopsided smile returning to his mouth. 

“How the hell did you get enough money?” He raised his eyebrows. “It took you two weeks to get here; you must’ve come far.” 

“I walked part of it.” Castiel glanced down at the tabletop, as if he could see his shoes through it; he wiggled his toes and then stretched them, feeling the ache along the bottoms of his feet. “After the money I had left from you began to run out, I decided to preserve what I had for food. Walking instead of taking public transport was the obvious choice.” 

“Jesus…” Dean sat up a little straighter. Castiel could almost hear him thinking this fact over; he imagined the wheels turning in his brain as he processed it. 

That wasn’t came out of Castiel’s mouth, though. Instead, one eyebrow twitched up slightly and he said, “I don’t see what he has to do with it,” which made Dean burst into laughter. Castiel wasn’t entirely sure why, but the sound of Dean’s chuckling was something else that he hadn’t realised he’d been missing, so he didn’t question it. 

“It’s good to have you back,” Dean chortled once he’d regained control of himself. He wrinkled his nose, amusement still sparkling in his eyes. “You need a shower though, dude, and a good few meals.” 

Dean stood, gesturing for Castiel to follow suit. “Go take a shower and I’ll cook somethin’ up. You must be hungry after all that walking.” 

Castiel was led through the maze of a bunker – which, he silently realised, he would have been able to navigate with a thought before, but now he would have to learn the layout – to the bathroom. It was a spacious room lined with white tiles along the walls and floor. Artful yet practical sigils were painted on the squares in dark blue, carefully done so none of the breaks between them went through a symbol. 

The shower was in the far right corner, frosted glass in the door to preserve the modesty of the user. Along the back wall was a large bathtub – almost a pool, really. The toilet and sink were tucked into the corner just to the left of the door. Three toothbrushes were already there, sat in a cup on a shelf just underneath the mirror. 

Dean flicked the lights on, and Castiel looked up to examine them. They were soft, nothing like the harsh bright ones he’d been expecting, and there was a devil’s trap on the ceiling in the same shade of blue as the tiles. 

Glancing down and to the side, Castiel spotted Dean watching him expectantly, eyebrows raised and his mouth open in a grin. “Good, huh? Those Men of Letters might’ve been crusty old dudes, but they were smart.” 

“It was certainly an intelligent precaution,” he agreed. With the defences in place, they couldn’t be attacked even when they were vulnerable. 

Dean leaned against the wall, crossing his legs at the ankles. “So, d’you want a shower or a bath? By the way, the pressure from the shower – _awesome_. It’s perfect.” 

“I would rather have a bath this time.” Castiel was interested by the shower and he definitely wanted to try it at some point, but his feet were hurting too much for him to stand comfortably for much longer. A bath, on the other hand, would allow him to soak and melt his pains away. 

He paid careful attention as Dean turned the taps, sticking his hand under each to find out which was the hot and which was the cold. Then Dean added a gel which made the water froth. 

“I don’t normally use bubble bath, but I guess it’ll be relaxing,” he explained, shrugging. Dean smirked. “Sam’s usually the one who buys it. I knew he was a girl deep down.” 

Castiel perked up at the mention of Sam, turning his attention to Dean instead of the swiftly spreading mass of bubbles. “How is Sam?” 

He noticed that Dean’s hands tightened just slightly on the side of the bath, but he kept this observation to himself. “He’s doing good,” Dean supplied. “He’s getting better. A bit longer and he’ll be as good as new.” 

It was clear that Dean didn’t quite believe it. Castiel didn’t need the ability to sense thoughts to know that. It was obvious in the mask in place on Dean’s face; it was the one that was trying to be cheerful but was cracking to show both the lack of hope and the hints of it underneath. The fact that he couldn’t fuel that hope into a definite flow of it was probably because of the other good things that had been snatched away from him before. 

For the first time in a while, Castiel sent up a silent prayer asking for Sam to be better for the sake of both of the Winchesters. 

Soon, even the large bath was nearly full, so Dean shut off the water. He pointed towards several bottles and explained their purposes – “Shampoo for your hair, wash for your body” – and then left to give Castiel some privacy. 

Part of him wanted to drag Dean back and keep him here. It hadn’t quite sunken in yet that Castiel had made it. It was only because of the sigils he could see out of the corners of his eyes that he believed he was really in the bunker. 

Castiel stripped, not bothering to fold his clothes. They ended up in a pile on the floor: shoes to one side, socks, muddy trousers, and underwear next to them; shirt, tie, jacket, and stained coat ended up next to that. He didn’t linger out in the cool air, as it made light tremors run across his skin in mere seconds, but neither did he test the temperature of the water before sliding in. 

It turned out that that wasn’t an issue. Castiel clambered in and slipped down until most of his torso was under the surface, a soft puff of air leaving his lips as the heat pressed into his skin immediately. Letting himself go further, the water ended up just beneath his mouth. 

He used the side to prop himself up, but he couldn’t bring himself to close his eyes or relax fully. Logically, he knew that there was nothing that could hurt him. He was powerless, true, but he was also safe, protected by symbols and his friends. It still didn’t ease the knowledge that his best trick was gone now. While he knew other ways to defend himself – Castiel could fight with his fists just as easily as he’d been able to with his Grace – he wanted to hone those skills to perfection so he wouldn’t be a hindrance to Sam and Dean. 

His first question once the two had stopped fussing over him would be to find out when he could start to practice. Weaponry was something that he’d need to get a good grip on, and he certainly wanted to make sure that he could still fight without the assistance of a blade or a gun in case he had neither to hand. Hopefully, Dean would be more than happy to help. 

Soon, the water dipped from near scalding to warm in temperature, so Castiel sat up and reached for the bottle of shampoo. More gel came out when he squeezed it, sliding over his fingers and into the water until he figured out that he should cup his hand. This bubbled too, like the liquid Dean had put in the tub, and when he began rubbing it into his hair the strands stuck together in the shapes that his fingers left behind. He cleaned his hands off in the bathwater, then sucked in a breath so he could duck under and rinse his hair out. Castiel repeated the process, as his hair still felt oddly gritty after the first time. 

After the bottle that held the wash produced yet another gel, Castiel wondered if all cleaning products were the same. He decided he’d find out when he had the chance. 

Thankfully, Dean knocked on the door before he could get that far. As Castiel poured water from his cupped hands across his shoulder to get rid of some stray bubbles, he noticed that he was sorely lacking in the department of a towel or clean clothing. 

“You decent?” Dean called. 

Castiel hoped Dean knew that the look that he was directing his way through the door was one that was faintly amused with a hint of exasperation. “I am in the bath, Dean,” he replied dryly. 

He heard Dean’s soft snort. “Point taken.” He came in, kicking the door shut as his arms were full. Whatever it was ended up on the counter by the sink; only once Dean unravelled the tangle did it become apparent that it was a shirt, a pair of sweatpants, and a towel. He laid them out, smoothing his hands across them to get rid of the crinkles. “I almost forgot you’d need something to change into,” he admitted, “so I got you these. They should fit.” 

Castiel nodded, gathering some of the remaining bubbles towards himself. There was no need for Dean to feel uncomfortable. “Thank you.” 

There was an awkward shuffling of Dean’s socked feet before he made for the door again. “If you’re nearly done, I’ll wait outside. Do you wanna shave? You’ve got some serious scruff goin’ on there.” 

He raised his hand to his jaw, touching it lightly. During his travels, Castiel hadn’t had an opportunity to care for his appearance enough to clean himself, let alone shave, and as a result he’d grown a small beard. It was short, but it was noticeably different to the stubble that had simply stayed put while he’d been a celestial being inhabiting a body. 

“I would appreciate your help with that.” Castel rubbed the pads of his fingers across the hair, the soft rasp of it unpleasant. “I haven’t had the need to do it before.” 

“I always wondered about that.” Dean chuckled, then shook his head, still smiling, and left Castiel to finish his bath. 

He pulled himself out of the tub, his feet landing on the floor with a wet slap. A few lingering bubbles trailed down his skin after rivulets of water, and he quickly became cold again. The towel soon sorted both problems. 

He hooked it over the edge of the sink while he pulled on the borrowed clothing. Both the shirt and trousers were slightly baggy, but comfortably so – Castiel had a sneaking suspicion that they were Dean’s, as there was a logo on the shirt that sounded like the name of one of the musicians he often listened to and had tried to educate Castiel on in the past. The towel went back on him, this time on his head, to ruffle his hair until it was only damp. 

That was when he called Dean back in. His friend bustled through the bathroom, collecting Castiel’s clothes and putting them into a basket he hadn’t spotted behind the door, before crossing to the cabinet under the sink. A bowl was tucked under his arm, which he filled with water while Castiel sat down on the lid of the toilet seat to wait. 

Once he’d gathered the necessary supplies, Dean crouched in front of Castiel and set the bowl of water on his knees. Castiel steadied it with his hands while Dean shook a tall, thin can. 

“Pay attention, ‘cause I’m only doing this once,” he warned. 

What came out of the can was another kind of gel, only when Dean rubbed this one between his hands it became more foamy than bubbly. He got Castiel to tilt his head back slightly so he could swipe it across the areas where his stubble had grown. 

It made Castiel a little nervous to have the razor close to his skin. Dean scraped it across the hair lightly and dipped it in the bowl to clean it off, carefully going over every inch. When he needed Castiel to move his head, he indicated with gentle nudges of his fingers, so it wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been. Before long, any tension he’d felt at the touch of metal to his jaw was gone. 

When it reached the stubble on his neck, however, it was a whole different story. 

Castiel flinched, jerking backwards with wide eyes. He swallowed as he dropped his chin to his chest to keep his neck _away_ from the blade. His heart was pounding too hard in his chest, so hard he could hear it, and his blood was running cold. But that wasn’t possible – it was clearly a ridiculous idea – because blood was hot, he knew that, it burned in his veins, bright points of pain between his shoulder blades- 

“Cas!” A hand gripped his shoulder. Castiel had to fight the urge to shove it off so he could throw himself against the wall like a cornered cat, complete with threatening glares, but the familiar voice soothed his ruffled feathers. It wasn’t Metatron, approaching with a scalpel to steal his Grace. It was Dean, helping him to make himself presentable. 

Castiel made his eyes focus on Dean’s worried green ones, already searching out his gaze. In reply, Castiel’s hand came up to clamp down on Dean’s, keeping it in place while he brought his breathing and heartbeat back under control. It didn’t seem to be working too well. 

Dean’s expression gentled somewhat. His free hand came up to rest on Castiel’s other shoulder – where had the bowl and razor gone? – to squeeze it. The touch was grounding. It kept him from falling back into the swirl of memories that had pulled him under at the touch of the razor to the spot just under his chin. 

“What happened there?” Dean murmured. “You just freaked. You okay?” 

It occurred to Castiel that Dean didn’t yet know the full story. He must’ve worked out that the angels had fallen, but he couldn’t know what had happened up in Heaven with Metatron. 

Next came the realisation that he wasn’t ready to talk about it. Or, at least, not while it was just Dean present. If he was going to relive the experience, he only wanted to tell the story once. 

Castiel exhaled slowly, another nervous swallow making an appearance. He averted his gaze, instead choosing to study the sigil on the wall. “I will explain when Sam is present.” 

“Alright,” Dean said coolly, shrugging it off. “I get it. Don’t worry about it. Now.” He pointed down at the floor where, when Castiel looked, he saw the equipment Dean had been using to shave him. “Shall I finish the job, or do you wanna do it yourself?” 

“I will,” he decided immediately. At those two words, Dean stood and moved everything over to the sink so Castiel had a mirror to work with. 

It was difficult going, as everything was backwards. It took a few seconds before Castiel could figure out how to turn his wrist with each new stroke. Even while holding the razor himself, it made him shudder to have it against the sensitive skin of his neck, but while he wanted it to be over as soon as possible, he didn’t dare rush; if he accidentally cut himself, he had no doubt that it would only make matters worse. 

He ran a palm across his chin when he was done, checking it for any unevenness. Aside from the underside of his chin, where there was a slight deviation in the length of leftover stubble that wasn’t easy to see, it all seemed to be in order. Dean chucked the towel at him again so Castiel could wipe off any stray bits of foam while he packed everything away. 

When Castiel lowered the towel and checked in the mirror that his face was clear, he paused, revelling in the sense of being _clean_. His skin felt raw, but he hadn’t scrubbed it that hard it all, so it must’ve been in his head. It was the knowledge that he was the cleanest he’d been in two weeks that was making his skin tingle, not a leftover sensation. 

Castiel didn’t have any time to linger, as Dean set off back through to the dining room. As soon as he set foot in the room, he was swept up in a hug by Sam. It was a tight, crushing hug, and Castiel could only just peek out above his arm. A breath of laughter tickled his hair. 

Sam released him after a second, allowing Castiel to get a good look at him. There was no denying that Sam looked tired, but there was a vibrancy in his eyes that had been absent towards the end of the Trials. He wasn’t weak or feverish now, and while he was undoubtedly still recovering, the old strength was starting to return. 

“You are looking well,” Castiel said. 

Sam grinned. “You’ve looked better." 

“Way to welcome him.” Dean rolled his eyes. 

Sam stepped around Castel so he could shove Dean’s shoulder, a move which the latter returned playfully. They headed for the table, still bumping into each other, and Castiel trailed after them. The three of them sat at the tale, where three plates full of breakfast were already waiting. 

“This is Dean’s second helping,” Sam informed him. “He was eating his first when he came to wake me up.” 

“Shut up, it was perfectly good food, even if it was cold,” Dean growled. 

The two continued bickering as they ate, the sound of cutlery clinking against plates interrupting them. Castiel felt warm, although it wasn’t physical – which was another odd but not new feeling when it came to the Winchesters – and it stemmed from the fact that they weren’t interrogating him. He knew that he would have to explain himself at some point, but for now they seemed content to let him settle in. 

A sharp stab of hunger in his stomach reminded Castiel that not everything was perfect, and it was with a slightly heavier heart that he started eating. 

* * *

Sam brought it up in the end. They’d been sitting quietly, the banter reduced to chatter (Castiel learned that Kevin was in the bunker somewhere, that the water in the bathroom had originally been saltwater until Sam had complained and Dean dismantled the plumbing to change it, and Dean had found a garage so he could actually park the Impala inside) when everything went quiet. Castiel looked up from his nearly empty plate to see Sam watching him and Dean staring down at the table grimly, like it was against his better judgement to ask. 

“What happened, Cas?” 

He set his cutlery down on his plate, carefully lining up the knife and fork next to each other. He swallowed again, even though his mouth was empty and dry. The motion felt tight. Castiel was beginning to wonder if that was what happened when he was uncomfortable now that he couldn’t just fly away. 

“Metatron tricked me,” he said flatly. “I was under the impression that the Trials would shut the gates to Heaven, but it was a lie.” 

He caught Sam and Dean exchanging a glance. Something coiled heavily and uncomfortably in Castiel’s stomach, making the food he’d eaten churn. He curled his hands together in his lap. “He took my Grace in order to complete the Trials,” he continued. “It caused my siblings to be thrown out of Heaven.” 

It was the short version, as Castiel wasn’t willing to go into the details. It had _hurt_ to have his Grace taken from him, like it was blood being drawn form his veins into the tiny glass bottle. Neither did he want to explain the heaviness of the guilt that was on his shoulders instead of the familiar weight of his wings. He hoped that they would be satisfied with what he’d told them. 

When silence still hung over them, Castiel took it upon himself to move things forward. “I am weary from travelling. Is there somewhere I can rest?” 

That seemed to jolt the two out of their contemplation – and, from the look of their glances, the conversation they’d been having through facial expressions alone. “Sure thing,” Dean said, turning to him with a comforting smile. “D’you think you can find your way back to the bathroom? There’s a spare toothbrush under the sink if you want it. I’ll get somewhere set up for you.” 

Brushing his teeth turned out to be more difficult than Castiel thought. The mirror took some getting used to again, but soon enough his mouth was full of minty froth. The taste was still strong after he’d spat it out, so he rinsed his mouth out with water. 

Dean came back just as he was wiping his lips with a towel to tell him that he could have Dean’s bed until they made up a room for him. Castiel was too tired to protest, and so found himself curled up under a duvet that smelled like Dean, the mattress under him curving to his shape. 

For the first time, Castiel slept deeply. 

* * *

“No, you dumbass, you’re gonna end up shooting someone else if you do it like that.” 

“I’m perfectly capable of holding a firearm, Dean.” 

“Yeah, your grip’s fine and your aim’s good, but so far you’re shit at multiple targets.” 

Dean rolled his shoulders and ran a hand through his hair, sighing. Castiel shot him an annoyed look as he returned to the furthest end of the shooting range to set himself up again, waiting for Dean’s command. 

Castiel had slept through the rest of the day after he’d arrived, completely dead to the world, even when Sam and Dean had looked in to check on him. The only confirmation they’d had that he was still in the land of the living had been the steady rise and fall of his chest. 

The following days had been dedicated to Dean being a mother hen over the three others in the bunker. He made Kevin leave the Tablet for now, sat him down at the dining room table with Sam and Castiel, and cooked a good sized meal for all four of them. The latter two looked a little queasy after consuming just over a human amount, but Kevin’s appetite, born from being a teenager and starving himself to divert all of his attention to translating the Tablet, never seemed to end. Together, he and Dean had managed to finish off the leftovers, only to regret it afterwards when they were both too full to even think about moving. 

Staying at the table had led to conversation that stayed firmly away from any sensitive topics. It had seemed that all four of them were trying their best to keep it in the realm of comfortable, and since no one had complained it had stayed that way until Castiel had turned to Dean and said, “I would like to practice my battle skills.” Then things had become a little more sober as the situation set back in, but then Dean had shrugged, agreed, and everything had melted back into the cheerful atmosphere from before. 

That was how Dean found himself with Castiel in the shooting range. He was borrowing some of Dean’s clothes – jeans that were a little too big with rips at the knees and a slightly baggy t-shirt that had _Metallica_ emblazoned across it – as he’d yet to get his own. Dean was planning on going out to get supplies soon anyway, so he’d take Castiel with him. 

Teaching Castiel was easy. He picked up on things quickly, which saved Dean a lot of time and patience. Hopefully, by the time the week was out, Castiel would be good enough to shoot without Dean’s guidance. 

“Go!” he called, and the sharp crack of shots rang out over the thud of Castiel’s footsteps again. 

* * *

Shopping was another challenge entirely. The hope had been that Castiel could find what he wanted to wear while Dean got the food, but that wasn’t what happened at all. He couldn’t even ask Sam around to get what they needed because he’d opted to stay behind with Kevin. 

The cart sat in a corner of the clothes section, pitiful with its tiny cargo of a few tins and some vegetables. 

Dean and Castiel were examining the clothes in the men’s section, picking through what was appropriate hunting-wear and what wasn’t. The vast majority of it was cast aside in favour of other, more practical clothing. Castiel’s trench coat was among that pile, unfortunately; it was too long, too easy to be grabbed and pulled, but Castiel had insisted on keeping it anyway. 

Normal clothing looked weird on Castiel, but it worked. They made him look like a hunter, like he meant business. 

They made him look human. 

* * *

When Dean got home, he discovered that Sam had been coughing up blood again. His brother was in the process of throwing away a tissue that was clearly stained red when he came through with bags of groceries on his arms. There was a faint tremble in his brother’s hand as he dropped the tissue in the bin. 

Neither of them said anything. 

* * *

Castiel’s room was complete. Kevin’s, too – when it became clear that the young man was going to be staying with them, Sam and Dean had taken it upon themselves to clear and furnish a room for each of them. 

Castiel’s was very plain, but it didn’t seem to bother him. The walls were a pale cream, with dark wood underfoot. The bed was large and looked comfortable. There was a wardrobe in one corner which held his trench coat and new clothes. A desk sat to the left of the door. In time, Castiel would find personal effects to decorate it with. 

The nights so far had been spent in Dean’s bed, sleeping with the hunter nearby. There had been careful space between them, but the knowledge that his friend was nearby helped Castiel to sleep peacefully. 

He was unprepared for the nightmares that solitude would bring. 

He woke in a sweat, bed sheets twisted around him, his throat raw from a cry that he stifled as soon as he was aware he was doing it. The ghost of pain lingered on either side of his spine and on his throat. It was a dull ache that wouldn’t leave, no matter how much Castiel told himself that it wasn’t real. He could still see the flashes of memory behind his eyelids, brief images of the faces of the angels he’d seen; broken, angry, and scared, they’d circled like hungry wolves in his mind, taunting him. 

There were arms around him, but despite the desperate need to throw them off, he didn’t struggle; the neck pressed to his nose told him the person smelled of coffee, gunpowder, and something else that was pure Winchester. When coupled with the gruff murmur of soothing nonsense into his hair, Castiel knew he was safe. 

Another voice spoke up, stopping the one rumbling under his ear briefly. 

“Is he okay?” 

“Fine. Nightmare.” 

“Sounded like…” 

“Yeah, I know. He’s okay now, though. Go back to sleep or whatever. I’ve got him.” 

“Alright. Give me a shout if you need me.” 

“It’ll be fine. Go and rest, damn it.” 

“Fine.” 

There was a soft click, and then quiet. Dean didn’t leave, which Castiel would be grateful for in the morning, as his presence let him finish the night without any other interruptions. 

* * *

When Castiel woke, Dean was gone. He only remembered waking up blurrily, the memories fuzzy from the panic and pain. His shoulders throbbed faintly as he padded through to the kitchen, where he could hear the voices of Sam and Dean. Despite his head still being sleep-addled, he picked up on the topic. 

“… think we’ve got something here, Dean.” 

“Yeah, looks like it. It’s worth a look.” A pause, and then a snort of laughter. “Oh, hell no. I’m not goin’ in there.” 

“Well, _I’m_ not. I’m hardly gonna be effective bait right now, am I? And we can’t send Cas in on his own, not with this one.” 

He frowned when his name was mentioned, eyebrows pulling together as he rounded the corner. Sam and Dean looked up from the laptop on the table at the rasp of his bare feet over the floor. Sam gave him a little twitch of a nod, while Dean’s lips pinched together with concern. Castiel acknowledged them by inclining his head. “What is it?” he asked. 

Dean answered as he pushed back from the table, his chair’s legs squealing on the floor. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a case.”


	4. I Wanna Take You To A Gay Bar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs I listened to while writing this chapter:
> 
> I Wanna Take You To A Gay Bar - Electric Six  
> Paradise City - Guns 'N' Roses

Dean set down a mug of coffee in front of Castiel with a firm _thunk_. The ex-angel stared down at the steam rising from the surface of the liquid, and, on an almost childish whim, he lifted a hand and flicked his fingers through the pale furls. He recognised the warm scent of coffee from the times he’d seen the Winchesters drink this.

“Drink up,” Dean said, offering a half-hearted grin. “You had a rough night.” 

Castiel raised his gaze to Dean, eyebrows pulling together. “Don’t remind me, please.” 

Dean’s expression turned apologetic, and he went to sit down next to Sam again. Silence reigned for a moment, interrupted only by Castiel’s hesitant sips at his coffee, his soft sound of surprise when he found that he liked it, and Sam’s keyboard’s clicking. Castiel’s little mouthfuls turned into long draughts as he emptied his cup. When the dregs circled the bottom of it, Castiel put it down again, wishing he could get more. 

However, there was another question on his mind. “What is the case?” 

Both Sam and Dean looked up when he spoke, and to his utter bafflement, Dean’s mouth twisted in a way that meant he was frustrated as he sat back in his chair with a sigh. Sam, on the other hand, looked like he was suppressing a smile. 

“Am I missing a joke?” Castiel asked, frowning at the two of them. 

Sam snorted, eyebrows raised, and returned his eyes to his laptop’s screen. “It’s nothing,” he assured him. “It’s, uh, it’s just the location. It’s making Dean a little uncomfortable.” 

Dean’s lip curled. “I’m not uncomfortable,” he growled, “you’re just being immature.” 

Sam stayed silent this time, pressing his lips together as he turned the laptop around so Castiel could see. As Castiel leaned forward, he caught sight of the mirth still dancing in Sam’s eyes, but chose not to mention it. Before he could even read a word, Sam spoke up again. 

“Men have been disappearing from this club for the past week,” he said, pointing at the back of the laptop. “They were found dead in their homes the morning after with no apparent signs of death.” 

“We had something kinda like it before with a siren,” Dean added. Castiel checked, and while there was certainly tension lining his shoulders, Dean seemed to have moved past whatever was bothering him. 

“This doesn’t look like a siren’s work,” Castiel disagreed. “Sirens enthral their victims; they have been known to kill, but manipulation is more common.” 

“Which is why we’ve gotta go do our homework.” Dean slapped his hands on the table as he stood, already gathering his own empty mug to take back to the kitchen. 

Castiel sat up straighter, the desire to assist making his stomach tie itself into a knot. “I want to help.” 

Dean tilted his head towards the hall as he began moving that way, inviting him along. “You can give me a hand with the books.” 

And so it was back to the maze of corridors, stairs, and hidden doorways – which, Castiel noted with a hint of pride, he was starting to remember now. Dean navigated it all with ease, and Castiel had no doubt that he could possibly find himself lost if Dean so much as stepped out of his vision. It was unnerving to acknowledge that he couldn’t simply wish to be beside Dean and find himself there. 

The library itself was a familiar room to Castiel. The last time he’d been there, he’d delivered the Angel Tablet to Kevin (and, silently, he admitted that that was on the list of his many worst hours). Dean evidently knew his way around, as he immediately moved over to a shelf and hunched over to read the spines, but Castiel wanted to take the time to admire the room before he joined him. 

He hadn’t noticed until now just how wonderful the scent of books was. It was woodsy and faintly smelled of ink; it made him feel warm with the knowledge that the pages were carefully written out to give the correct information, whatever it might be. He doubted that there would be many fictional stories here. 

Castiel approached a set of shelves, peering in at the tomes. He trailed his fingers along the tops, testing out the feeling of the pages. They scratched slightly at his skin, sometimes peeling back before sliding back into place. In the little gaps, Castiel saw the black print of words. 

In the back of his mind, there was still a multitude of information that he’d picked up in his time as an angel, but now the clarity of it was starting to fade. In the two weeks since he’d become human, he’d found that it was becoming more and more difficult to remember the specifics of the heavenly laws that it had been second nature to obey. 

He was bound by new rules now, and as unfamiliar as they might be, they still felt strangely right. 

Castiel let his hand drop from the books. It fell heavily to his side, swinging slightly. He exhaled quietly, trying to force thoughts of Heaven out of his head so he could concentrate on the here and now. 

It didn’t look like Dean had noticed his minor distraction. His friend was leaning against a shelf, an open book balanced on a forearm while he flicked through the pages. Castiel went to join him, easily sliding into the space next to him in order to look over his shoulder. 

“What have you found?” 

Dean tilted the book further towards him. “I was lookin’ up stuff about sirens. I’m pretty sure it’s not one, ‘cause they kill pretty obviously, and Sam said that there’s no cause of death here, remember?” 

Castiel raised his gaze to the ceiling, idly studying the intricate patterns overhead while he thought. “Perhaps it’s something similar to a siren. It seems to be hunting in… on similar grounds.” 

“Pretty delicate way to put it,” Dean muttered. Castiel thought he heard a quiet laugh, too. “You’ve got a good point, though. I guess we could take a look at things like ‘em.” 

An hour later found Castiel and Dean seated at a table in the library, books piled between them and a sheet of paper balanced precariously on the edge, two pens keeping it from fluttering to the floor. Names of creatures were scribbled across it, sometimes with bits and pieces of extra information underneath or crossed out entirely, which happened more often than either of them liked. 

* * *

Dean couldn’t help but compare this to the similar situation he’d been in with Charlie – although, they’d sat on the floor with their research rather than at a table – but there was the same air of ease about it. There was no desire to fill the silence between them. It was comfortable with Castiel. 

It was only when they were narrowing down their list to a handful of beings that he nudged his current book aside and set his attention on his friend. Castiel raised his head almost immediately, blinking a few times as if to clear his mind. His eyebrows drew together and his head tilted in a silent question. 

“Are you gonna be okay with coming on the hunt?” Dean asked. “It’s not gonna be the same as it used to be. Sam’s in no shape to do it – it was a mistake to let him come on the last one, to be honest, I think it made everything worse – but I need backup.” 

“I’ll be fine,” Castiel assured him. “I’ve already told you that I wish to help.” 

His friend’s determination was obvious, and even managed to make him feel a little more at peace with the idea. It didn’t need to be said that Dean was stretched thin with worry, so this bit of familiarity – Castiel’s desire to assist his friends – smoothed his ruffled feathers somewhat. 

A crooked grin crept onto his lips, tugging them up at the corners. “Alright, but there’s something we’ve gotta do if you wanna come on a hunt.” 

Castiel’s head tipped the other way. “And what is that?” 

Dean closed his book with a snap so he could cross his arms on the cover and lean forwards. He jabbed a finger in Castiel’s direction, smile widening. “You’ve gotta get inked up.” 

“Inked up…?” 

“Tattooed.” The finger pointed at Dean himself this time, tapping at the spot on his chest where the ward rested over his heart. “Anti-possession tattoo. Even Kevin’s got one.” 

Dean was surprised to see wariness leak into Castiel’s expression. He glanced down at Dean’s chest, eyes narrowed slightly, then raised them to his face again. “Will it hurt? The method seems to be unnecessarily painful. Surely there’s a better way?” 

The childlike questions startled a chuckle out of Dean. “Yeah, but how much it hurts depends on where you get it done.” 

“Where do you suggest I have it?” Castiel moved his gaze down to where Dean had gestured on himself, considering. 

He shrugged, settling back against his chair again. “Up to you. I guess it’s easier to keep it from being-” 

“I’ll have it done on my chest.” Castiel said it decisively and went back to his book, leaving no room for debate. 

Dean blinked. That settled that, then. 

* * *

Another little mission into the outside world was made before anyone even considered going out for the case. That mission, Sam heard with no small amount of amusement, was Dean taking Castiel to get ink done. Castiel looked completely at ease with the idea, but Sam still wished he could have gone along to watch. 

He had a mission of his own, however. Two if he really wanted to listen to Dean’s demands of “you stay here and get better, damn it”. 

He had to talk to Kevin. 

The poor kid was killing himself again. During the time Dean had been helping Castiel settle into the bunker, Sam had found himself in the company of Kevin more and more, and so he’d come to know his schedule. It comprised of very little time to sleep or eat, as most of the day was dedicated to trying to find any way possible to reverse the damage Castiel had done. Sam appreciated his determination, but there was no sense in running himself into the ground to put the world back together. 

The little voice in his head that sounded like Dean was growling the word ‘hypocrite’ at him. Sam ignored it. He knew better now that he wasn’t as influenced by the Trials. 

As soon as the heavy door to the bunker was closed, Sam turned on his heel and went to seek out Kevin. It didn’t take very long to find him; after a while, he’d gathered up his bits and pieces and migrated to the library. It was one of the rooms that people didn’t tend to hang around in unless they were doing extensive research, so it was quieter, making it easier for him to concentrate through the headaches. 

On his way there, Sam stopped by the kitchen. He loaded up a tray with drinks (coffee for Kevin, a beer for himself) and some snacks, which he took with him. 

Sam walked through the doorway sideways to accommodate the tray, and then paused, peering over the shelves until he spotted Kevin at one of the tables. He’d chosen one in the far corner, spread out his papers and the Tablet, and apparently gone straight back to translating. 

When Sam set the tray down at the opposite end of the table, Kevin glanced up. He blinked blearily, lifting one hand to rub at his eyes. 

Sam nudged the cup of coffee towards him as he sat down in the chair across from him gratefully. It was frustrating that he was still so weak – going out to fight Greek gods had proven it – but there was nothing he could do until his body recovered. 

“Thought you might want some caffeine,” Sam said. Kevin grunted, nodding gratefully as he picked up the mug and took a long swallow. 

“Thanks,” he replied. Kevin searched for a patch of table between the pages so he could put the cup down before flashing a smile at Sam. 

As soon as Kevin’s head started to turn back to the Tablet, Sam tossed a packet of crisps at him. It landed neatly on the symbols he couldn’t read, preventing Kevin from going back to work. 

“Eat,” Sam urged. “You need it.” 

He almost expected Kevin to throw the bag back at him, but the boy opened it and popped a few crisps into his mouth. Sam was a little tempted himself by the crunching and the memory of the familiar salty taste, but his stomach rolled once the greasy scent caught up to him and he changed his mind. He settled for an apple instead. 

The two of them ate in companionable silence for a few minutes. It was evident that Kevin had been starving, as he finished the crisps in record time; the crumpled up plastic of the packet ended up in a ball in a corner of the tray, and he quickly reached for another. Sam gave himself a mental pat on the back. 

When the core of the apple and the other empty bag joined the slowly building pile of rubbish, Sam got down to business. 

He sat up, leaning on his forearms. Kevin raised an eyebrow, looking weary, but it was directed at Sam instead of the Tablet. 

“You can’t keep on like this,” Sam said firmly. 

“I have to,” Kevin countered, shaking his head. “I’ve done it before, I can-” 

“Stop.” Sam held up his hand, grimacing. “Look, I get that you wanna help, and that’s awesome. That’s great. But you can’t do it like this. You’ll kill yourself, Kevin.” 

He started to protest, but Sam raised his eyebrows and he fell silent again, fuming quietly. “You matter just as much as anyone else,” Sam added gently. 

“Why, because I’m a Prophet?” Kevin snorted, throwing himself backwards. His chair rocked dangerously before righting itself. 

It was, admittedly, a part of it. Who knew how the angels would handle new Prophets now? If Kevin died, what would happen? Would they even be able to keep the Tablet safe? (The odds were ‘yes’ with that last question; Sam doubted the angels were in any condition to take it from them, at least for the moment.) 

Still, the idea that Kevin thought they only valued him because of his ability to read the Tablet made Sam uncomfortable, and if it made him uneasy, then it would sure as hell make Dean feel the same. 

“Not just because of that,” Sam said, figuring it was better to keep that part in there, too. It was best to tell the whole truth, right? “Believe it or not, we like having you around. You’re family.” 

Something akin to guilt flashed across Kevin’s features. “Sorry. But seriously, I should keep looking through this. What if we’re missing something?” 

“It can wait.” The legs of Sam’s chair scraped across the floorboards as he pushed it back to stand. “Look, I’m not gonna force you to make a decision now. If you wanted, me and Dean could probably train you up alongside Cas. The more the merrier.” 

Sam headed back out again, leaving the remainder of the food – and his beer, he realised when he was halfway down the hall – behind. 

Kevin didn’t emerge from the library for the rest of the day, not even when Castiel and Dean came home. Dean clapped Castiel’s shoulder as they passed Sam, and he gave his brother what could only be described as a shit-eating grin. Castiel frowned back at him as he disappeared into the kitchen; the sounds of cupboards opening could be heard, followed by a plate being put down on the counter. 

Raising an eyebrow at his brother’s expression, Sam gave in and asked, “What happened?” 

Dean broke into guffaws of laughter. “Oh, man, you missed _gold_.” He jerked his thumb back towards the kitchen, where Sam swore he heard Castiel sigh, as if he was tired of this conversation already. “The dude doing his tat _flirted_ with him, and Cas didn’t get it.” 

“I am not well versed in this behaviour,” Castiel muttered, just loud enough for them to hear. 

* * *

It wasn’t until the next day that they were ready to go out. They set themselves up with the usual precautions – guns with salt bullets, a flask of holy water each – and dressed in their best suits. It was odd, Dean thought, to see Castiel wearing just that without his trench coat over the top. 

He also cleaned up rather nicely, he admitted to himself. As Castiel emerged from his room, smoothing out the crinkles in his jacket, Dean spotted that he’d shaved again – he spotted a nick at the corner of his jaw – but apparently not well enough to get rid of the stubble that seemed to be permanently there. When Castiel spread his arms as if to say ‘how do I look?’, it was reminiscent of the moment he’d come back from Purgatory. 

Just like the last time, Dean shifted his feet, swallowed awkwardly, and gave a jerky nod. “Great,” he said. “Awesome. Right, let’s head out.” 

Dean _swore_ he saw Sam smirking at him from the kitchen doorway as they left. As Castiel had gone ahead of him, Dean felt that there was no harm in cheerfully flipping his brother off; Castiel still didn’t really understand that insulting someone could sometimes be affectionate. 

There was _nothing there_ , but still he caught Sam making faces at him. It was infuriating, to say the least. 

It was a relief to slide behind the wheel of the Impala; the familiar leathery scent of her seats settled him. Once Castiel had buckled himself in – and checked that he had his fake ID, courtesy of Sam’s quick and believable forgery skills – Dean started up the engine and pointed the wheels in the right direction. 

Castiel seemed content to sit in silence, so Dean flicked on the Impala’s radio. The opening notes of Guns ‘N’ Roses’ _Paradise City_ greeted him, making a smile spread across his lips. 

_”Take me down to the paradise city,”_ Dean crooned, reaching over to turn it up, _“where the grass is green and the girls are pretty!”_

Castiel shifted at the edge of his vision, twisting to watch Dean instead of the scenery flashing past outside. He pictured him with a slight frown, which made him stumble with a snort of laughter over the line ‘take me home’. 

Dean expected Castiel to question his music taste – it was about time; he couldn’t remember if he ever had or not – but, instead, Castiel merely stated, “You rarely sing.” 

“Huh.” Dean let the music play without his attempts to keep up with it now, lifting a hand to scratch his chin thoughtfully. “Yeah, you’re right. It’s been a while. I don’t remember the last time I sung along with something.” 

“You have a nice voice for it.” 

That was also a surprise, but a good one. “Thanks.” 

“Please continue. Don’t let me interrupt you.” 

As Castiel turned away again, Dean tentatively picked up the lyrics and he thought he saw his friend’s knee bouncing slightly in time with the music. A smile tugged on the corners of Dean’s lips as he returned his attention to the road. 

Luckily, the location of the latest case wasn’t too far away from the bunker, which meant that it wasn’t likely that they’d have to find a place to stay for the night, unless they fancied wearing the same clothes tomorrow. In no time at all, they were pulling into town. 

The medical examiner was waiting for them; apparently, Sam had called ahead to warn him that they would be coming. Dean revelled in the ability to do that now. It saved them some trouble, even if he and Castiel still showed off their IDs, just to be safe. 

As they were led towards the table that held up one of the bodies, Dean snagged two pairs of plastic gloves. He tossed one back to Castiel before pulling on his own. He’d never quite liked the feeling of the thin gloves coating his skin, but he’d rather not catch anything from the bodies. The Ghost Sickness was enough, thanks. 

“This is a weird one,” the examiner warned them as they came closer. He flipped back the sheet, nose wrinkling, looking annoyed. Dean couldn’t remember his name. 

“How come?” Dean asked. He stood on the opposite side of the table, watching with interest. He’d long grown used to the sight of an autopsy, thank God; this job wasn’t one for the faint-hearted. 

“The entire body’s in perfect health,” the examiner said. Dean had been expecting that. “Every organ’s about as healthy as you could expect for someone of this guy’s age. It’s like he just, I don’t know, dropped dead. I can’t find a single thing that might have killed him.” 

“Like someone _avada kedavra’d_ him?” Dean asked, a hint of amusement in his tone. 

Apparently, the guy was into _Harry Potter_ – who wasn’t? – because he flashed Dean a smile. “Sounds about right, yeah.” 

Over the sound of their shared chuckles, Castiel simply said, “I don’t understand.” 

Dean’s new friend turned to him with an incredulous expression. “He’s never read it or watched the films? Seriously?” 

“I’ll sort it out as soon as we’re done here,” Dean promised. 

He heard an impatient, irritated sigh from Castiel, which only served to make him smile more. “Moving on,” Castiel said, shooting Dean a stare that was verging on threatening, “what about these marks?” 

Both men sobered again for a moment as Castiel pointed at purple and pink patches of skin. They littered the victim’s neck and the lower half of his face, especially around his mouth. Dean snorted, while the examiner chortled. 

“Looks like he got a little frisky before he died,” the examiner replied. “Jeez, just how much does he know, Agent?” 

“Yeah, how much _do_ you know?” Dean repeated, turning the question on Castiel with raised eyebrows. 

“Enough,” Castiel replied curtly. “This is very off-track, so if you wouldn’t mind-” 

“Alright, alright.” Dean waved a hand at him. “Don’t get your panties in a twist.” He glanced back at the examiner, a charming smile sliding into place as he pulled a card from his pocket. “If you figure anything out, give us a call, okay?” 

“Sure thing. Good luck with the investigation.” 

“Thanks.” 

As he and Castiel headed for the door, Dean stripped off his gloves and dumped them in the nearest bin, Castiel following suit. There hadn’t been another word from him yet, and while a silent Castiel wasn’t unusual, there was a stormy quality to this that made Dean think he’d maybe overstepped the line somehow. 

Castiel didn’t even wait until the cover of the Impala. No, as soon as they stepped out into the rain – the clouds had had their fill of water and decided to spill while they were inside – he seized the elbow of Dean’s jacket in a tight grip. Dean knew from personal experience a few days ago that Castiel’s strength hadn’t just come from his angel mojo; his body was wiry, lean, with muscle packed beneath the skin. Dean still had bruises from their most recent sparring session. 

“That was unprofessional,” Castiel growled. 

Dean rolled his eyes and tried to shake him off. Castiel’s hand stayed put. “Give me a break, dude. I was making conversation.” 

“You were being hurtful about my lack of experience and knowledge with things that I have not yet grasped about being human.” 

Dean cast a nervous look around, checking that they wouldn’t be overheard. “I was lightly teasing, there’s a difference,” he replied once he’d deemed it safe. 

The two stayed locked in a stare-down, and Dean was pretty sure it would have escalated into a proper argument if his phone hadn’t demanded his attention. Scowling at Castiel, he broke the eye contact to dig out his phone and shut it up. 

**I might have found something. Call me ASAP. - Sam**

Dean pulled out his keys with his free hand, unlocking the Impala with a sigh. “Cas, I can feel you glaring at me a mile off. Quit it.” There was a quiet grumble in reply. 

Once he was in the driver’s seat again, he set his phone on the Impala’s dash as it rang, ignoring Castiel’s questioning look. Sam picked up after a couple of trills. Dean could hear footsteps and the flick of book pages in the background. 

“So I was taking a look at the list of creatures you gave me,” Sam opened with, “and I found something you might want to know. How did checking out the body go? Find anything worth looking into?” 

“No,” Dean said at the exact same moment Castiel answered, “Yes.” 

The two exchanged another frustrated look. Sam laughed. The look transferred to the phone, not that Sam could see it. 

“What did you find, Cas?” 

Castiel’s gaze became challenging as it slid back over to Dean, almost like he was daring him to stop him from speaking. “There were numerous bites on the throat and face of the victim.” 

“Cas, we talked about this-” Dean started. 

“That’s what I wanted to ask about, actually,” Sam interrupted. 

Dean was pretty damn sure that the crinkles around Castiel’s eyes meant that he was smug. His brother carried on, unfazed, despite the fact that he knew what Dean’s silence meant. 

“One of the things you had on your list was incubi,” he continued. 

Castiel sat up a little straighter, exhaling in understanding. “Of course. That makes sense.” 

“Is anyone gonna fill me in, or shall I just sit here?” 

“Shut up, Dean.” He could _feel_ the eye-roll from Sam. “Incubi and succubae feed off of sexual energy. They drain their partners until they’re dead, but because it’s not technically a physical injury, nothing shows up apart from the bites. I figured since it’s happening in a gay bar, it’s gotta be an incubus.” 

“… Son of a bitch.” 

“Did you discover what kills them?” Castiel asked. 

“Not yet,” Sam confessed, “but I’m working on it. Shouldn’t be too different to succubae, right? I’ll let you guys know as soon as I get it. Are you done there?” 

Dean fiddled with the Impala’s keys, shrugging, despite the fact that only Castiel was there to see the movement. “I guess. I dunno what else we could look up until you find out how to kill it.” He started up the engine, but didn’t pull out of the car park yet; as Guns ‘N’ Roses started blasting out of the Impala’s speakers again, Dean quickly lunged for the buttons to turn it down, ignoring Sam’s quiet, tinny grumble. “Should we head back or hang around until you’re done?” 

“I don’t know how long it’ll take, so you should probably come home. I’ll call you again if I get anything.” 

“Alright. Talk to you later, Sammy.” 

“Bye.” 

Dean scooped up his phone to put it away. He set out for the bunker, but this time there wasn’t any singing. Honestly, he got why Castiel was sensitive about feeling lost, but surely he knew that he could go to him or Sam or even Kevin for advice? The dip in the mood prevented Dean from even trying to sing along on the way back. 

* * *

The pounding music of the club – the one common factor between all of the victims – was _nothing_ like _Paradise City_ , the song or the place. The bass was heavy enough that Dean felt it rattling his chest and limbs. It even made his teeth click against each other. 

Then again, they were gritted anyway. 

Even in the dim lighting, there was no way the distinctly _male_ shapes of the bodies could be mistaken. The shoulders were too square for that man’s partner to be female, the chest too flat for Dean to even try to picture the petite guy in the corner as a girl. 

His conversation with Charlie was ringing in his head along with the thudding beat, swirling his thoughts around in his brain. He was sorely tempted to use this opportunity to experiment, as he had in the past – being openly curious (open to himself, anyway) was something new, something which had developed only in the past few years when he’d become comfortable with the idea. 

Men were attractive, Dean admitted silently to himself. So this? This was a test. Dean tried not to let his gaze linger, as he was supposed to be on the prowl for something else entirely, but it was no easy feat. 

“Dean,” a low voice said in his ear firmly. 

It snapped him out of it – at least, for a second or two. He turned to see Castiel watching him, eyes narrowed with something like concern, but it wasn’t quite that. Dean couldn’t figure out what was off about it. “Yeah?” 

Jesus, Castiel was _distracting_. He was a little bit anyway, but when he was dressed up specifically for this occasion, Dean had to remind himself that Castiel was not an available option. 

“Pay attention.” Castiel’s lips thinned as he glanced around. Dean could guess what the rest of what he wanted to say was: _concentrate on finding the incubus_. 

There wasn’t really a solid way of discovering it, unfortunately. All they had to work with was that incubi could appear as the ideal man, and could simply seduce its prey with little more than a touch of skin on skin. Needless to say, that was difficult to work with in a club, of all places. 

It was a dangerous situation for the two of them to be in, too. 

Dean nudged Castiel, inclining his head towards the edge of the room, and his friend nodded, not even bothering to try to speak over the music. Maybe it was a little stupid to move to the side, towards the loudspeakers, but Dean didn’t much fancy hovering at the edge of the dance floor; he was at risk of being invited onto it, and if he’d stumbled – both over his words and literally – at being _flirted with_ by a guy, what would happen if he was asked to dance? 

The corner they ended up in was occupied only by a table and the door to the bathroom. Dean pointedly ignored the couple entwined beside it. This time, he was grateful for the deafening bass; it drowned out any sounds he might’ve heard. 

Castiel opened his mouth and Dean saw it moving, but the problem from before presented itself again: he couldn’t hear a thing. 

“Talk louder!” he shouted, gesturing vaguely with his hands. Castiel huffed and stepped closer, placing his lips to Dean’s ear. 

“This isn’t working!” Dean winced; Castiel’s voice was definitely louder now. “We can’t possibly find it under these conditions!” 

“What are you talkin’ about? It’s perfect! He’s here somewhere!” 

Dean could imagine the frustrated sound Castiel would have made as they both looked back at the writhing crowd. He started looking at people on the sidelines, wondering if the incubus might be snooping among them instead. 

They ended up hanging around for another half an hour before they called tonight a lost cause. “I’m gonna take a leak!” Dean informed Castiel, pushing off from the wall to head to the bathroom, past the couple that were _definitely_ up to something now. 

He walked into the gross room, spotting all kinds of stains littering the tiles, ones that Dean really didn’t want to think about. He made way for a man with dark hair and a chiselled jaw who was on his way out, nodding jerkily to him as he passed. The man blinked at him with grey eyes before returning the acknowledgement and leaving, making the room empty of everyone but Dean. He was grateful for the privacy. 

When he returned to his and Castiel’s section of wall, his friend was missing. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Dean hissed, yanking his phone out of his pocket – tight jeans, Jesus, who thought they were a good idea? – and send a text that was already prepared, nervous energy pumping through his veins. 

Where the hell was Castiel? 

* * *

Castiel breathed a sigh of relief when Dean returned. He looked ruffled, like he’d had a run-in with someone – or something, he supposed – on his way back. 

“Did you find anything in the bathroom?” Castiel asked. His throat was starting to hurt from raising it to be heard; he was sure it would be deeper than usual tomorrow. 

Dean shook his head, glancing back the way he’d come. “Just a couple of weird stains.” He pulled a face and jerked a thumb towards the door, raising an eyebrow in question. “Shall we head out? Looks like he’s not here tonight.” 

Castiel nodded, letting Dean lead the way out. He supposed that this would mean repeating the trip until they found the incubus, which made his heart sink. Castiel didn’t like the club. It was too noisy, too hot, and reminded him of the time Dean had set him up with Chastity, who really hadn’t tried to be very chaste at all. The only fond bit of the memory was Dean’s laughter afterwards. 

As the door swung shut behind them, the night’s cool air washed over him, peeling away the sticky feeling that had settled over Castiel’s skin. He felt comforted by the empty evening. 

His first clue that something was wrong was when Dean turned down the street the wrong way. The Impala was a few blocks away, safely out of sight so it wouldn’t be recognised if they had to come back. Dean should know that, but he set off confidently, no falter in his step to indicate that anything was out of place. 

Castiel’s phone pinged in his pocket - his second warning. He reached down and pressed the ‘send’ button on his own through the denim of his jeans. 

Castiel narrowed his eyes at not-Dean. “Your car is in the opposite direction.” 

He saw the flush of his cheeks under the glow of a lamppost as he turned. Castiel spun on the spot to follow Dean back the way they’d come. “Shit. Sorry. Guess I’m a little distracted.” 

“Just because we didn’t find the incubus doesn’t mean it escaped,” Castiel told him. “We can return tomorrow night-” 

“I wasn’t talking about the incubus, Cas. I was talking about you.” 

Castiel’s heart skipped a beat, causing a swooping sensation in his stomach. It was a completely unfamiliar sensation to him, and he wasn’t sure if he liked it. It took a moment of consideration for him to decide to continue with his apparent lack of understanding, and when he did he slowly said, “If you mean our argument-” 

Dean made a frustrated sound in his throat. Castiel found hands twisted into the front of his shirt, his back pressed to the wall, and Dean’s bright eyes fixed on his intensely. They dropped to his mouth after a moment. “I don’t mean that either.” Fingers uncurled from his shirt, dropping to the exposed skin of his waist, and relaxation spread through Castiel instantly. 

Despite what Dean seemed to think, he wasn’t ignorant. He’d watched over the Earth for thousands of years, so he knew what it looked like when one person was attracted to another. However, it was one thing to _see_ it, but to _receive_ that look? That was something entirely new. 

Castiel swallowed the lump that had suddenly risen to his throat. The hands on his shoulders gentled, almost caressing now. “Dean…” 

_Thwack._

A fist slammed into Dean’s cheek and sent him sprawling across the ground. Castiel’s hand flew to his waist and drew the handgun he’d had tucked in there for an emergency like this, and he swung it up to point the barrel at… 

… Dean? 

This Dean was grimfaced, his own salt-filled gun pointing at his counterpart, and while he refused to take his eyes off of it for one second, Castiel could see the shock, concern, anger, and fear in them. 

“What the hell were you doing, Cas?” he demanded. “Jesus Christ, I came back and you were _gone_. We’re friggin’ lucky we had the text thing set up. You’d be…” He trailed off, teeth clicking as he snapped his mouth shut. 

Now that Castiel tore his gaze from Dean’s face and looked, the ‘thing’ was indeed that: a thing. The skin was paler, the hair shaggier and darker. Sharp fangs protruded over its lower lip; when it caught Castiel’s gaze, it hissed, displaying the rows of its other snakelike teeth. The eyes were no longer green, but red. 

Even on his guard, the incubus had almost tricked him. 

Cold horror flooded Castiel’s veins as realisation washed over him, thoughts rolling through his head like a film; incubi snared their prey by appearing as the person the victim desired sexually – specifically sexually, as incubi were sexual beings – and it had displayed itself to Castiel as… 

He wanted to think that Dean hadn’t heard him talking to it, but the expression on his friend’s face had been answer enough. 

With a sense of dread, Castiel moved to Dean’s side. He pretended he didn’t see the brief wary look that was sent his way. He raised his chin, pulling on a mask that was all business. 

The incubus moved, shifting onto its fingertips and the balls of its feet as it crouched, as if preparing to pounce. The muzzle of the gun Castiel pointed at it was steady, thankfully, and the creature shrank back again, snarling. 

Then the sounds stopped. It cocked its head, looking between the two of them. 

Slowly, a toothy smile spread across its ugly face. 

“I see now…” it muttered, the ‘s’ sound dragged out between its teeth. “You’re not what I thought, are you? Ah, but the potential..." The incubus inhaled, nostrils flaring as it pulled in some scent neither Castiel nor Dean could pick up. 

Dean’s gun clicked. Neither of them had any idea if salt would hurt the incubus, but it was worth a shot if it started to make things difficult. It was a type of demon, after all.” 

_“An exorcism will do it,”_ Sam had said. 

“Dean,” Castiel said. Dean grunted in reply. “You know… _the drill_.” The phrase felt odd on Castiel tongue. 

Dean’s answer was to say, _“ Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus…”_

The incubus growled and made to take a step forwards; Dean didn’t hesitate in firing a shot into its flank. It howled, falling backwards as the salt burned into its skin, sizzling. 

_“… omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica,”_ Castiel picked up. This was something recognisable, comfortable; he settled into the ritual of exorcising a demon like one might fall into bed after a long day. This, he knew. 

_“ Ergo, draco maledicte, ecclesiam tuam securi tibi facias liberate servire-”_

The incubus squirmed, pinned in place now by the physical pain of the salt and the power of the words being spoken. It bucked and writhed, trying to escape, but it was useless. 

_“-te rogamus, audi nos,”_ Castiel finished firmly. 

He watched with satisfaction as it crumpled onto its side, mouth forced open wide as black smoke poured from between its fangs. It swirled upwards and away while its body crumbled, became ash, and, eventually, nothing. 

Castiel’s first action was to attempt to head off Dean’s mood before it began, but he was already walking back to the Impala. Even when he caught up and the first syllable of an apology was out of his mouth – personally, Castiel felt he had nothing to be sorry for, but it might help – Dean silently raised his hand and shook his head. 

Pain stabbed, sharp and fierce, in the centre of Castiel’s chest. He had no previous experience to compare it with, but it felt like being stabbed with an angel blade. A bitter taste in the back of his throat accompanied it. 

Was he feeling _rejection?_

He would ask Dean if it wasn’t already clear that Castiel wasn’t allowed to speak to him, so he simply sunk down in the passenger seat of the Impala and studied the reflections in the window. 

* * *

The moment they were inside the bunker, Dean made his escape. He couldn’t stand to be around Castiel at the moment, not while this new information was sinking in. Sam’s confused questions went unheard, as did Castiel’s request to explain himself to Dean. 

The quiet of his room was soothing. He locked the door behind him and leaned against it for a few seconds, breathing through the dizzying mixture of thoughts and emotions. 

There was a reason Dean didn’t go into any real relationships these days. It was too much to handle. He didn’t deserve it. He couldn’t rationalise being happy. There was the risk of him dying. Any of those explanations worked, and he had a plethora of other ones if any more evidence was needed. 

He snagged the CD player from his desk as he moved across to his bed. After making a home here, he’d purchased each of the albums he had on tape, plus many more. Dean had no idea what was in there now, but he plugged it in next to his bed, put it on the floor, and hit play before collapsing onto the covers. 

Music was just what he needed. Like the Impala and his bedroom, the familiar sounds should relax him. 

Well, that was the theory, anyway. 

_“Captain America’s been torn apart, now he’s a court jester with a broken heart-”_

The snap as Dean furiously yanked the lead to unplug it sounded much more satisfying than _Paradise City_.


	5. If I Were In Your Shoes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs for this chapter:
> 
> If I Were In Your Shoes - You Me At Six

Dean was curled into a little ball under his duvet, where it was pleasantly warm, and he woke slowly from the comfortable haze over his mind. He nuzzled into his pillow, realising it smelled nice as he did so. It was a familiar scent, one that wasn’t his and he couldn’t place it.

He let himself enjoy the feeling of lazing in bed with nothing pressing at him to get up. It wasn’t until he cracked open his eyes that he realised that something was off. Rolling onto his back, Dean sat up, frowning at the distinct lack of guns on the walls. Dean’s personal touches were gone, replaced with a few books scattered on the desk and shelves. 

The sleepy fog was gone now, chased away by his unease. Sliding out from under the covers, Dean stuck a hand into the first draw of the table, grasping for a knife, only to come out with a journal that definitely wasn’t his; _2013_ was printed on the brown leather cover. He quickly returned it to its rightful place and peered into the drawer. 

Inside, there should have been the knife he’d originally intended to grab, the Impala’s keys, his phone, and a few condoms. In reality, the only items in there were the journal and a pen. 

Something was very, very wrong. 

The first port of call was the kitchen. It was the closest room to the bedrooms that Dean was certain would contain something that could be used as a weapon. 

His disorientation strengthened when he stepped out into the corridor. The door was in the wrong place, further down the hall than it was supposed to be. He knew that it was, in fact, Castiel’s. 

A confusing mixture of something he couldn’t think about yet swirled in his stomach, clogging up his throat. One of his hands rose to sweep across his face as it usually did when he was nervous or thinking, and after its first brush he repeated the motion, frowning. 

The stubble was more pronounced than he was used to, which was odd, especially considering he’d shaved the night before. Hesitantly, he let his hand follow the same path it usually took. It moved up past his ear and into his hair, raking through it. It was a little longer than it was supposed to be. 

Dean hurried to the bathroom, forgetting about the kitchen and leaving Castiel’s bedroom door swinging open behind him. The same treatment befell the one to the bathroom, and the light switch was slapped harder than was necessary. 

The bulb overhead flicked on, illuminating the tiles and the inscriptions on them. Now that there was a mirror just to his left, Dean found himself chickening out of looking. If he hadn’t heard another door opening down the hallway, he might have stayed there for longer. 

Swallowing, Dean turned. 

The gaze that met his was blue, not green. Gone were the freckles and shorter hair; now he had clear skin and messy dark hair that definitely didn’t belong to him. 

“What the fuck?” he whispered. In the mirror, Castiel did the same, an identical shocked expression on his features. “What the _fuck?"_ He lifted a hand to his opposite arm and pinched, hard. 

Yep, it was definitely real. 

_What the hell?_

* * *

**48 HOURS EARLIER**

Showers were, in Dean’s opinion, the best thing ever invented. He’d never been able to appreciate a good shower until they’d moved into the bunker. At motels the water had been cold or the pressure was crappy, leaving him clean but unsatisfied. This shower, however, the one he’d fallen in love with, was another matter entirely. 

Dean groaned as he switched it on. The water hit his shoulders just right, beating on his tired muscles. Here, it was perfect, especially after a hard day of swinging around various weapons for practice. As he raised his arms over his head, a catlike stretch bending his spine, his upper arms ached from the strain they’d been through. It was worth it for the relief now and the benefit later, though. 

Just as Dean was lathering up, a knock on the door interrupted him. He frowned, shutting off the water briefly. “Yeah?” 

“Apologies. I wanted to know if the shower was available.” 

Castiel. 

Ever since the case with the incubus, there had been an awkward sort of tension between them. Gone was the friendliness that had lingered sweetly since Castiel’s return, replaced by an awareness of what Dean had seen but ignored for so long: his bond with Castiel ran a little deeper than he had noticed. 

Dean had wanted time for it to sink in, time to think about it, and it had been days. In all fairness, it should have vanished by now, but the uneasiness still remained and it was all because Dean was too stubborn to let it go. He knew it, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to address the issue. 

As a result, his friendship with Castiel was suffering – again. At least, that was what it felt like on Dean’s end. Castiel was reaching out, but Dean kept pushing him away. 

Dean was a stubborn bastard. It was something he was well acquainted with. 

“Sorry, Cas,” he called back, giving his head a little jerk to clear it. “I’ll be out in a few.” 

When no reply came, Dean went back to finishing his shower. He relished it less now, and the realisation of _that_ made the situation even worse. 

He swiftly rinsed off and stepped out, collecting his towel from the toilet lid. Dean gave himself a quick dry before wrapping it around his waist and gathering the day’s clothes, draping them over his arm. He started humming under his breath in an effort to cheer himself up; music always helped. 

He completely missed the beat of the song when he opened the door and almost tripped over Castiel. The guy was standing there, newly bought pyjamas in his hands, just shy of being trodden on by Dean as he exited the bathroom. 

Dean’s clothes hit the deck so he had two hands free, one to grab the doorframe and the other to make sure his towel didn’t fall down as he stumbled. Castiel moved backwards smoothly – _bastard_ – with a furrowed brow. “Sorry.” His gaze dipped down briefly, hovering just over his collarbone, before returning to his eyes. 

"Be more careful,” Dean blurted out. After a bit of awkward shuffling when he and Castiel tried to move past each other, Dean seized his clothes from the floor and made his escape to his room. 

* * *

**NOW**

When Dean’s – or, he supposed, Castiel’s – voice rose again, this time panicked, there was a thump from down the hall, followed by an ‘ow’. He scrambled for the door, flinging himself out of it inelegantly to see what had happened. 

Sam was clutching his head, grimacing. He turned to look at the doorframe he must’ve hit his head on, confusion spreading across his features. “Sam!” Dean called, relieved. “Something’s fucked… up…” 

It was bizarre to hear his typical speech patterns in Castiel’s voice; the rasp just didn’t suit it one bit, not after he was used to Castiel’s formal way of speaking. Sam stiffened when Dean babbled, his hand lowering as he looked up. It was then that Dean noticed that something was wrong. Sam didn’t look like that when he was confused, and exhaustion was more evident on his face than it should’ve been. 

It wasn’t Sam. 

He was expecting a confirmation – which he got, in a way – but what ‘Sam’ said instead was, “Why are you me?” 

Dean’s teeth clicked together as his mouth snapped shut. “Cas?” 

Castiel glanced at Dean – which was so weird, having Sam’s eyes on him but the same analytical look he was used to from Castiel – before looking away, down the corridor of bedrooms. “I woke when I heard shouting,” he explained, “and found myself…” Trailing off, Castiel gestured at himself. 

“Same,” Dean informed him, and he was about to elaborate his worries when a thought struck him. “So if I’m you, and you’re Sam, then where’s…?” 

Without a word, they both started for Dean’s room. 

They made it perhaps two jogged steps before Castiel yelped and grabbed Dean when his feet failed to obey him. 

The two hit the deck hard, thanks to Sam’s weight coupled with Castiel’s lack of coordination. Dean’s cheek hit the floor and he bit the inside of it, sending the coppery taste of Castiel’s blood across his tongue. He growled, rolled over, and sat up to glare at the tangle at his feet. 

“What the hell, Cas?” 

Castiel pushed himself up on his hands, cheeks flushing. “Sam is taller than me,” he replied, sounding frustrated. “My centre of balance is different.” 

Dean merely snarled under his breath, clambering to his feet. It wasn’t Castiel’s fault, he knew that, but it felt good to have something solid to be annoyed with him about. It was a better reason than his previous one, at any rate. 

He thumped the side of his fist on the door when he reached it with three solid bangs. “Sam?” he called. “Get out here!” 

The rustling of sheets came from inside, and Dean barely had any time to think that he was grateful that he’d adopted the habit of at least wearing a shirt and boxers to bed before the door swung open. 

It was, in a word, bizarre. 

He saw himself, but all of Sam’s mannerisms were there; the slight way he inclined his head, as he usually had to do so he could meet a person’s eyes; the curious quirk of an eyebrow; the pinched mouth of someone who was mentally tired. He frowned when he saw Dean, mouth opening to form the word ‘Cas?’, but it died before the click of the ‘C’ even left his mouth as he looked to the left of him. 

Sam blinked once. 

Twice. 

He blinked a third time, raised a hand to rub at his eyes, then blinked again just to be sure. 

“What the hell?” 

Did his voice really sound that gruff usually? 

Dean leaned against the doorframe, making a little jazz-hands motion as he weakly said, “Surprise.” 

It was probably a bad thing that nobody even questioned if switching bodies was possible. 

“What do we do now?” Castiel asked, and it was still so, so weird hearing him speak with Sam’s voice. Dean’s stomach rolled uncomfortably, remembering with ease what had happened when someone had literally gotten under Sam’s skin before. It never turned out well for anyone. But, despite his frustration with his friend, Dean trusted Castiel a little more than he would, say, Lucifer. 

Sam sighed, “We should try to figure out if this is permanent-” 

“Better fuckin’ not be permanent.” 

“- _and if it’s not_ ,” Sam continued, speaking firmly over Dean, “we need to figure out how to reverse it as soon as we can. That’ll be the easiest thing to start with.” 

“It likely also depends on the brand of magic used,” Castiel added, “and the spell itself. Certain qualities or ingredients can effect it drastically.” 

“So, basically, we’re screwed. Great.” Dean rolled his eyes, slouching against the doorframe. “Just perfect.” 

Sam shook his head, somehow managing to look amused at his brother. “We’re not screwed yet. The spell had to have been cast recently, right? Which means there’s only a small window of opportunity. We can work out where it might have been and see if there’s a pattern, or if it’s just a random thing.” 

“Well, off you go, Sherlock. Go hit the books.” 

“You’re coming with us, Dean.” Sam translated his bitch-face onto Dean’s features perfectly; Dean had to give credit where credit was due. Sam grabbed Dean’s forearm and pushed him towards the library. “You two go ahead. I’m gonna go grab my computer.” 

Once they’d all moved to the library, it all seemed a little more real. They left the table where Kevin’s things were spread out (the boy was missing, sleeping in his room for once) and instead chose one of the more central ones. Sam took a seat at one end with his laptop while Dean and Castiel collected books. Thankfully, Castiel seemed to be getting the hang of moving with Sam’s body, so no tomes landed on any toes. 

Dean noticed that when he sat down, however, there was a large sigh of relief, and he also spotted Sam’s anxious glance between the two of them. He stored the information away to analyse later. 

“How did we fix this last time it happened to you?” he asked Sam instead. 

His brother shrugged. “The kid reversed the spell. That doesn’t help much, though. Only two of us were affected, so for all we know the wording could be different.” 

“That is likely,” Castiel chipped in. He switched books, glancing up at the brothers. “And it may also be-” 

“A different thing,” Dean finished grumpily. “Yeah, I heard.” 

Castiel narrowed his eyes at him. “Dean, I’m aware that you’re still frustrated with me, but now is not the time to be childish.” 

Dean glared down at his book. 

Castiel stared at Dean. 

Sam, caught in the middle, winced. 

“Anyway,” he said, clearing his throat and the air. When he had their attention, Sam continued, “We’ve only been to one place recently, and that was for a regular salt ‘n’ burn.” 

* * *

**24 HOURS EARLIER**

Dean sat down with a thump, his Styrofoam cup of crappy coffee spilling a little down the sides. “Shit,” he grumbled, using the napkin he’d been given with his fries to mop up the little puddle. Castiel didn’t comment on his accident or language, simply opening his mouth to take another bite of his sandwich. 

They were outside a dirty little café, waiting for Sam to join them to get rid of the awkward and stifling air around them. Days had gone by since the little mishap with the incubus, and everything still felt off between Dean and Castiel. Part of Dean’s frustration with the situation was that he _missed_ Castiel and the way they’d just seemed to fit when he came back to the bunker. The knowledge of what the incubus had insinuated contributed, too. 

Well, it was own fault, really, considering that he wouldn’t let Castiel explain. That thought only served to sour his mood further. 

Even the fries tasted bad. It just wasn’t his week. 

Dean could have cheered when Sam returned, his own healthier meal in his hands. He watched his younger brother like a hawk as he took his seat at the rickety old table. There was exhaustion in the line of Sam’s shoulders, making them sag slightly, but this was perhaps the best Sam had looked in a while. One of the reasons Dean had relented in letting Sam join them for this hunt had been the cabin fever that had had him climbing the walls with boredom. When a simple salt ‘n’ burn had offered itself up, the three of them had gladly pounced on it. 

Now the job was done and they were trying to enjoy a celebratory dinner. The only problem was the atmosphere between Dean and Castiel, potent enough to make Sam want to take a stab at it with the knife hidden in his suit jacket in the hope that it might make it dissipate. 

When Castiel finished his food, he let his gaze wander, blue eyes drifting around their surroundings. It was almost physically painful for Sam to watch, especially when Dean was very obviously avoiding looking at him; he stared resolutely into the dregs of his coffee, like the bottom of his cup was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen. 

Sam was sick to death of their behaviour, and he didn’t even know if that was an exaggeration anymore. They’d had ample opportunity to figure this out themselves. 

“Are you two ever gonna grow up?” Sam asked. Dean turned an angry stare on him – it was the one where it was simmering under the surface, barely hidden; it made Sam think twice about continuing for a brief moment – and Castiel’s lips pinched at the corners. 

“We’re already fully grown men-” Castiel began, but Sam cut him off. 

“Don’t give me that naïve crap, Cas,” he interrupted. “You know what I mean.” 

He caught Dean puffing up in the corner of his vision and took a little bit of smug satisfaction from it. At least he was still defending Castiel. “This isn’t your problem, Sam,” Dean growled. “Back off.” 

“No. Someone’s got to get you two to talk this out, because apparently you’re both too childish to do it.” Sam sat back in his chair, nodding at them. “So talk. I’ll be the referee.” 

“There’s nothing to talk about.” The metal feet of Dean’s chair scraped noisily on the ground as he pushed it back. “I’m going back to the Impala. Feel free to join me when you’re gonna stop prying.” 

Dean stalked off, leaving Sam feeling guilty. He turned to apologise to Castiel, but his friend shook his head with a soft exhale. “It’s not your fault,” he assured Sam. “I don’t think it will help if we press him. It seems that the more pressured he feels to speak about what happened, the worse the situation becomes.” 

It was very typical of Dean, Sam thought. He sighed, propping his chin up on his hand as he picked at the remainder of his salad. “What actually is it for you, Cas? Do you actually… you know…” The subject matter alone was enough to make Sam’s food turn in his stomach. The last thing he wanted was to discuss his brother’s potential love and sex life, but apparently it had come to it. 

He was so going to get payback for this somehow. 

Thankfully, Castiel seemed to pick up the direction of his words, as he raised an eyebrow and asked, “Do you mean to clarify whether I harbour romantic feelings for him in light of the form the incubus took?” 

Sam nodded, one corner of his mouth quirking up into a little smile. “Yeah.” To his surprise, Castiel shrugged, glancing away again. “I’m uncertain. Everything concerning emotions has been rather overwhelming since I became human. They’re difficult to untangle.” 

Sam had expected confirmation, not doubt. Being an outside eye to the relationship between Dean and Castiel had its advantages; he could see, for example, that Dean loved Castiel in some form, as proven by the sheer loyalty he’d shown over the years that rivalled the dedication he felt for other parts of their family. For Sam, the tenderness Dean had displayed when Castiel first came back to the bunker had cemented it. 

Of course, it apparently wasn’t as simple for Castiel or Dean as they were the ones involved. 

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out eventually.” Sam tried to give Castiel an encouraging smile to lift his spirits. “And either way, Dean will come to his senses at some point. He always does.” 

Castiel thinned his lips, looking back down at the crumpled napkin in his hands. “I would like to stop talking about it now.” 

Sam nodded, letting it go. Things were bad enough already without him making it worse for Castiel. As he stood, gathering their rubbish to throw away, he paused as Castiel spoke again. It was Sam’s turn to feel a little shifty as his friend posed the question, “And how are you feeling, Sam?” 

There was a brief hesitation before Sam firmly said “I feel great” and dropped the trash in the bin. 

* * *

A few tables over, a woman titled her head, the short argument catching her attention. It was saddening to see. Even to a bystander like her, it was clear that something had unbalanced in the relationship between the two men; it was especially evident in the way one of them stormed off. 

She decided to give them a little helping hand. It wouldn’t hurt. It was one little spell with a time limit. It would run out soon enough and, hopefully, the end results would be far preferable to the awkwardness emanating from the table now. 

Smiling to herself, she unwrapped a Snickers bar and took a bite. 

* * *

**NOW**

Sam and Dean looked up as Castiel stood. There wasn’t much of a wobble in his step as he stood and moved around the table, heading for the door. 

“Where’re you going?” Dean asked. 

“For a walk,” he replied simply. “My head hurts and my legs are numb. I’ll be back soon.” 

Hearing Castiel say that was almost as weird as their current situation. Human things just didn’t sound right coming from Castiel, and Dean doubted they would for a long time. 

Seconds had barely passed before Sam was closing the lid on his laptop and leaning closer, violently reminding Dean of that one conversation he’d had with Charlie. He was proven right when Sam said, “We need to talk about Cas.” 

He was getting a talking-to from himself. It was just what he needed to complete the crappy day so far. 

Dean employed the same tactic as before: he fixed his gaze on one page in his book. “Sam, don’t go there. I told you-” 

“I’m butting in, so deal with it.” Dean swore he could _feel_ Sam puffing up like an angry cat. He was sinking his claws in; Dean wasn’t getting out of this. 

He sighed and closed the book. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.” 

Dean wouldn’t have been surprised if Sam had growled at him with the way his bitch-face intensified. “You need to get over yourself,” he stated firmly. “You’re destroying your friendship with Cas, and all because there’s a little bit of something else there.” 

“‘Something else’?” 

“Shut up. I’m not done.” Sam full on glared at him. “You’ve actually got to be stupider than I thought if you didn’t notice that you and Cas had a thing.” 

His expression softened then, becoming more pitying. “You used to look at him like he was the best thing to ever happen to you. He still looks at you like that. Don’t throw something this good away, man. Hell, you deserve something like that.” 

Dean sure as hell wasn’t about to let Sam dictate his feelings. “Sam-” 

“I’m not saying you should go out there and jump his bones,” he interrupted, raising a hand to indicate that he still wasn’t finished. “Just get back on good terms with him at least. He misses you, and judging by your constant kicked puppy look? You miss him, too. 

“I don’t care if there’s anything mushy going on between you two. In fact, it’s great if there is. I just hate seeing you guys like this. It’s pathetic.” Sam finally looked away, returning his gaze to the laptop screen. “When all of this crap is over, promise me you’ll talk it out with him.” 

Dean stared down at the cover of his book and, after a long pause, he gave a defeated sigh. “Fine.” 

Sam’s exhale was more relieved than Dean’s. “Thanks. Now I can go back to teasing you instead of walking on eggshells.” 

“I hate you.” 

“You’ll thank me later.” 

* * *

Castiel was confused. He was also in pain, thanks to the loud ringing in his head that reminded him of the field where his brother had landed; it was the same high pitched note that pierced his ears and head. 

It had been slowly building throughout the hour or two of reading, and now it was coming to a head. In the kitchen, he leaned against a counter, bowing his head with a grimace. He pressed a palm to his forehead, and when that didn’t help, he tried putting his palms over his ears. 

Nothing. 

He slid down the cupboard doors behind him to sit on the floor with his back to them, Sam’s long legs stretched out before him. The glass of water he’d come here for sat by the microwave, forgotten. If he’d looked, he would have seen a fine tremor on the surface of the liquid and the numbers on the microwave’s display flickering. 

Without warning, the sound cut. Castiel relaxed slowly, lowering his hands and peering warily around the kitchen. He parted his lips and exhaled shakily as he tried to make sense of it. 

There was only one creature he knew of that could have that effect, and those were currently wandering around powerless, and the bunker was warded against everything else. It was impossible for an angel to even attempt to talk to him on the Angel Radio – his real body wasn’t capable of receiving the call anymore, and Sam’s wasn’t built for that. 

It didn’t, however, rule out the possibility that an angel had tried to speak to him with its true voice. How it could manage that at this point in time, Castiel didn’t know. 

He started to haul himself back up again when his stomach swooped sickeningly and his vision seemed to tilt. Castiel gripped the edge of the counter with all of his might, but he needn’t have worried; instead of seeing the tiles of the kitchen’s floor, he found himself looking at a book cover. 

* * *

For a moment, Dean thought he was going to throw up because of the dizzying spinning of the world, but then he realised the hands he was lifting were his own, and he could have wept instead. 

He looked up and there was Castiel, apparently shocked but definitely himself. He gave a slightly trembling sigh as he raised his gaze to Dean’s. One corner of his lips tried to pull up into a smile, but his relief was more apparent in the way his eyebrows relaxed out of their frown and his eyes glimmered. 

Dean had missed that. 

He _wanted_ to get the Big Conversation going, but first he needed to check on Sam. Had he been sent back to his own body safely? 

Castiel’s smile was already disappearing, returning to the depths of wherever it had come from. Dean almost wanted to grab hold of it and yank it back. He wasn’t done recommitting it to memory yet. 

“One sec, Cas.” Dean gave him a little smile in return as he dug his mobile from his pocket, and this time it was curiosity that subtly enhanced Castiel’s features. Dean thought that it might be difficult for someone who didn’t know Castiel to pick up on his mood, but it was easy for someone like him, who knew where to look. 

Texting first. 

**You okay? DW**

**Fine. Back in your body? SW**

**Yeah, we’re all good over here. DW**

**Good. Now talk to him! SW**

Sam was like a dog with a bone. Dean didn’t bother replying to the last text; instead, he put his phone away again and shoved Sam’s laptop aside so he could lean forwards. Castiel cocked his head to one side. 

“I’m sorry for being a dick,” Dean started. 

Castiel’s lips pressed together like he was trying not to smile. “It’s fine. I see you’ve come to your senses?” 

“Yeah, guess I have,” he chuckled. Dean sobered quickly when he came back to the topic at hand, though. He looked down at the table, scratching at a swirl in the wood with a nail. “Can we, I don’t know, pretend the past week or so didn’t happen?” 

“Would that mean we would be friends again?” Castiel asked. 

Dean glanced up, a smile twitching on his mouth. “Yeah.” 

He almost jumped in surprise when Castiel’s hand settled on his arm. The gaze he met was warm, the coolness that usually resided there completely gone. “You have extended the hand of kindness towards me many times, Dean, even when I did not deserve it. It would be cruel of me to reject your friendship now.” 

Castiel looked down at his hand briefly, seeming thoughtful. “I would never attempt to force feelings of any kind upon you, nor would I expect you to reciprocate them unless you truly felt them.” 

His hand moved to his wrist, squeezing gently. “You are free to make your own decisions. You taught me that from the very beginning.” 

Dean bit the inside of his cheek and tapped his toes on the floorboards. He wanted to ask about Castiel’s actual feelings, but the words wouldn’t come out. They got stuck in his throat, refusing to budge. Instead, he made a sort of questioning noise. 

His companion’s eyes glittered with amusement, and then he was smiling a real smile, and Dean couldn’t help replying with one of his own. It was effortless, easy, and comfortable, like it had been before the mess with the incubus. 

* * *

Sam grimaced almost as soon as he realised he was awake, eyebrows pulling together as he fought off one hell of a headache. It throbbed in time with his heartbeat, and somehow, he knew it had only just started. 

But before it could truly set in, something cold and soothing – like a wet cloth – felt like it was dragged across his forehead, taking the pain away with it. As the last tendrils left his brain, he noticed that everything was slightly off. 

One: he was back in his own body in his own room. 

Two: he felt perfectly fine. There wasn’t a single bit of his body that hurt; everything was as it had been before the Trials. No aches, no pains, no nothing. There was just the knowledge that he was actually _fine_. 

Three: a piece of paper was folded on his bedside table. 

Sam rolled over and sat up, switching the lamp on. It cast a warm glow across the walls, but it was too bright too soon, so Sam had to shield his eyes for a moment until they adjusted. When all was well, he reached for the note. 

It was plain paper, unremarkable in design or colour. It was probably the same kind that was in the printer he’d discovered in a corner of the library (which Dean still needed to fix). His name was written across the top, the biro that had been used still sat on the table. He recognised it as one of his own. 

Flipping it open, he began to read. 

_I figured you knuckleheads could use a little helping hand, seeing as you were running around like headless chickens. You’re welcome. – T_

The note crinkled in Sam’s hands slightly as he turned it over, checking for more, even though the short message fit onto just one side of the paper. There was nothing except for his name on the top side. 

He went to get a better look at the table to see if there was anything else, but there was not a single sign. All he had to go on was the note and the gift of health ‘T’ had given him. 

So, basically, nothing. 

Sam shoved the note into the top drawer of the bedside table, hiding it away under other pencils and sheets of paper. It could stay hidden in there until he had more information, as far as he was concerned, out of the way and protected from discovery. 

* * *

“Okay, wait.” Kevin levelled a disbelieving frown at Dean, rocking his chair back. “I missed you guys switching bodies because I was actually sleeping in my room for once?” 

“Yep.” 

“And I missed you and Cas having your big gay talk?” 

“Not cool, but yeah.” 

Kevin swung his gaze around onto Sam. “Tell me all the details of how he reacted to switching bodies.” 

Sam held his hands up in surrender. “I wasn’t there. Cas was.” 

Three pairs of eyes moved to Castiel. He shook his head. “I arrived afterwards.” 

Kevin scowled at the three of them. “None of you thought to wake me up?” 

“No offence,” Sam said, amusement forcing his eyes away from the boy, “but we were kinda busy trying to find a solution.” 

“I could’ve helped, too!” 

“No, you would’ve laughed. Don’t even try to tell us you wouldn’t have.” 

Kevin stood, shoulders slumped as he slouched out of the room. “You’re all assholes!”


	6. My Tent Or Yours?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs for this chapter:
> 
> Dead On Arrival - Fall Out Boy

The wind was strong, battering the side of the tent and continuing the slow freeze of its inhabitants. One of the two young men inside shuddered, cussing under his breath as a particularly hard shiver wracked his scrawny frame.

“This was a stupid idea,” he hissed. “Camping in a storm, who does that? Can’t even get a fire started.” 

“Shut up,” his companion growled, voice slightly slurred from sleep. “Get over it. We’ll go back tomorrow morning. Sleep.” 

_Easier said than done,_ the first thought bitterly. 

Soon, he heard the soft snores of his slumbering friend, and he cursed him silently for his ability to sleep through such awful weather. Rain was starting to patter on the canvas overhead, forming little pools in the dips of it and snapping as it hit the material. It kept the first of the two young men awake, conspiring with the cold to give him a terrible night’s sleep. 

Apparently, his bladder was joining the club; the beers he’d had before the weather had turned were making themselves known. 

With fumbling fingers stiff from the cold, he unzipped his sleeping bag and threw off the blanket, wriggling out of the warm cocoon he’d worked up. The chilled air hit him like a wall, slamming into him and setting his teeth chattering. Spotting his friend’s abandoned jacket – what was wrong with the guy? – he snagged it and pulled it on over his own so he had another layer to ward off the even colder air outside of the tent. His boots did little to warm his frozen toes. 

The first footsteps outside had the wind shrieking in his ears and nipping at his exposed skin, steadily reddening it. He shuddered to think of what it would be like when he actually went to relieve himself, but stubbornly stomped through the forest to find a suitable bush; he wasn’t willing to wait all night for a bathroom. 

It was only when he was zipping up his jeans again that he heard the soft, slow breaths behind him and the sharp snap of a twig. A threatening growl met his ears. 

Inside the tent, the second man was jolted awake by the shrill yells of pain from his friend. He scrambled to his hands and knees, and ended up entangling himself in his bedding in an effort to reach the open flap of the tent. “Jamie?” he called, pulling himself by sticks and claws of dirt outside. 

Jamie did not reply. Standing, Jamie’s friend stumbled towards the origin of the cries, voice trembling as he whispered his name into the silence that had fallen. 

The quiet didn’t last long. The wind picked up as _something_ barrelled into his side, knocking him to the ground. His cries were cut off by sharp teeth in his throat before they could really begin. 

* * *

The first Sam saw of Dean in the morning was when he dumped a rucksack in front of him with a thump, a grin on his brother’s face. He looked up from his laptop screen, clicking off of the sites he’d been on (ones where he’d made attempts to find anything that referenced the spell Metatron had concocted to boot out the angels. He came up with nothing). 

“We’re going camping!” Dean announced, patting the bag. 

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Why?” 

“Found some werewolf killings,” he explained, dropping into the seat opposite. “Couple of guys out in a forest, something attacked ‘em and both hearts were missing. Pretty open-and-close case. I figured we could all do with something uncomplicated.” 

Sam quietly agreed. They had enough ‘complicated’ on their plates what with the angels, so something easy that _didn’t_ end up with them all switching bodies or being possessed by Greek deities would be very welcome indeed. 

“Awesome. What’ve you got in here?” Sam poked at the bag, feeling the sharp angles of something hard inside. “Isn’t this just the weapons bag?” 

“Yeah.” Dean shrugged, adding, “We don’t actually have a tent for camping. But there’s a cabin near where it happened which I’ve got for us ‘on FBI business’, so we can get there easily.” 

Sam stood, nudging the kitchen chair back with his calves. “I’ll go get my stuff. Is Cas coming on this one?” 

“Yep. He’s already getting himself ready. I’ll grab my things, let Kevin know, and then we can go.” Dean turned in the doorway as a thought occurred to him; Sam paused next to him as he saw his expression go from nearly excited to concerned. His lips pinched as he glanced Sam up and down, but he spoke before Sam could ask him what was on his mind. “How’re you feelin’?” 

He’d been waiting for Dean to ask. It couldn’t have escaped his brother’s notice that he was clearly stronger and moving around without the weariness of before. Now, thanks to whoever had left the note, Sam was in perfect condition, pre-Trials. 

He wasn’t sure whether to thank ‘T’ or gank them. 

“I feel great,” he replied honestly. “I just, I dunno, I feel better. I guess the body switching sorted it or something.” 

Dean didn’t seem convinced, but he didn’t pursue it yet; he simply gave a quiet ‘huh’ and a nod, and then moved off to the corridor of bedrooms. Sam trailed after him, leaving him at the door to his own room to pack. 

When he emerged with a rucksack over his shoulder, he found Dean and Castiel engaged in conversation over the case. It was a relief to see that they’d apparently made up – or, at least, that they seemed more relaxed around one another again. 

After talking to Castiel, Sam had had his doubts concerning their relationship. Now, he paid closer attention. 

He knew Dean well, so he could see the hidden comfort and happiness in his body language in the way he inclined his head towards Castiel slightly and leaned against the wall by the bedroom door. Castiel was more difficult – he always seemed to express his emotions through his eyes alone – but he thought he caught a glimmer of quiet joy at having Dean talking to him properly again. 

Sam resolved to get the two together if it was the last thing he did, which was, admittedly, probably not a good thing to promise with his lifestyle. 

But they had a werewolf that needed to be put down, so he cleared his throat to catch their attention. Castiel raised his gaze to Sam’s face, the warmth in it still lingering, while Dean sprung back a step as if burned. When he caught sight of the almost-but-not-quite hidden smile on Sam’s face, he glared at him, and was that a hint of a blush Sam saw? 

Dean had something good and he didn’t even know it. Sam pitied him. 

“We should go tell Kevin the plan,” he said, gesturing with his head towards the library. 

“Yeah, sure.” Dean nodded, pouncing on the opportunity; he moved quickly past, hefting his bag over his shoulder. “You guys go wait by the door or whatever, I’ll be there in a few.” 

As Dean left, Sam glanced back over at Castiel. His friend was still watching Dean with that sort of fuzziness that Sam recognised from way before he’d ever gotten with Jess; it was the sort of feeling one had before they even knew how far gone on a person they were. 

Sometimes, Sam thought, it was impossible to help Dean and Castiel; the two were just too stubborn to examine their own feelings. It was going to be difficult to keep his promise to himself. 

* * *

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Dean gritted his teeth and refused to even look over his shoulder at Sam and Castiel, keeping his gaze fixed ahead on the way to the library. 

He knew what that smile from Sam meant. He’d seen it before, mostly when there was something Dean just wasn’t getting, but he was pretty damn sure he knew what it meant now. 

It was bullshit. Dean was putting his foot down on that one. _Bull. Shit._

He didn’t know whether he really believed his own call of bullshit, though, which was a problem. 

That didn’t matter now. He threw the thought from his head, filling it instead with information about the case and which music he’d put on while he drove there. They were safer than anything fuzzy concerning a certain angel-turned-human. 

When he found Kevin, he was actually relaxed for once. The Tablet and assorted paperwork that came with it were nowhere in sight, probably stored away somewhere safe in his room. Instead, Kevin had a laptop in front of him and headphones over his ears, and when Dean peered over his shoulder he realised he was playing some kind of game. He didn’t try to understand, even if he longed to kick his feet up and give a video game a go himself. 

Kevin hit pause and looked up when Dean poked his shoulder. He pulled the headphones down to hug his neck so he could hear. “Yeah?” 

“Me, Sam, and Cas are goin’ out on a hunt,” he explained. “Usual rules. No parties, help yourself to food, watch the good porn-” 

“Got it.” Kevin hooked the headphones back up with a finger, giving Dean a little wave with his other hand. “Enjoy being suicidal.” 

Dean chuckled, flicked the back of Kevin’s head affectionately – an annoyed ‘ow!’ followed him out of the library – and went to meet up at the door. 

After that it was a familiar process of bundling everything into the trunk of the Impala and hopping in, then heading out on the road with music blaring from the car’s speakers. Sam looked through the printouts he’d made of some bits and pieces of information, and Castiel sat in the back, idly humming along with the music – which, Dean had to admit, made something curl in his stomach, warm and satisfied. And when he caught Castiel’s gaze in the mirror and saw the smile still lingering there, he couldn’t help that he replicated it. 

* * *

The cabin looked small on the outside, but inside it was easily large enough for three people. The door opened onto a room that had a kitchen at the back and a table with four chairs in the centre; there was no TV in sight, unfortunately, even though they had been assured that there was Wi-Fi. Three doors led off from the room: two bedrooms and a bathroom. Dean had already said he’d take the couch tucked into the corner of the main room. 

Dean dropped the rucksack of clothes and the weapons bag at the foot of his temporary bed, and then turned to lean against the wall and wait. Castiel and Sam had already disappeared into their respective rooms to drop off their luggage; they emerged again within seconds, Sam carrying his laptop. 

The three of them set themselves up at the table with cups of what was supposed to be coffee but looked like dark brown sludge. The weapons were brought over and examined, what they’d need to kill a werewolf pulled out and checked. 

It was, admittedly, a very simple case. It was just a matter of drawing the creature out, killing it, disposing of the body, and leaving again. There weren’t even any people in the forest that they were aware of; the owner of the cabin had said that he had no other patrons in any of his other buildings nearby, and had also warned them to stay away from the deeper areas after the deaths of the two young men. 

“How do we plan to find it?” Castiel asked. He’d left his drink untouched after one cautious sip. It would be cold by now. 

“Look for signs and track it,” Sam replied. “Or it might come to us, but I doubt it; we outnumber it. The best place to start will be the crime scene. Odds are it’ll still be fenced off, though. We’ll have to be careful.” 

“We’ll look later,” Dean said. “There’ll be signs, it’ll be easy to find. Then we’ve just gotta catch up and get rid of it before we can go home and chill.” 

As always, it was easier said than done. 

Rain was falling by the time they ventured outside; it was the pathetic kind of drizzle that slowly soaked into clothing and skin, working gently but persistently. It settled like crystals in their hair, on their noses, and on the leaves of the greenery around them, glimmering in the lights of their torches. 

The campsite was no more. The ground was trampled, a few darker patches of dirt were visible here and there, but all signs of human life were gone. Apparently, given that it had been an animal attack, time and resources weren’t going to be wasted. 

It made it incredibly easy for them to pick around the camp. Armed with their torches, they combed the ground for prints or trails of blood but, bizarrely, came up with nothing. 

“Weird,” Dean muttered, crouching to examine the ground closer. “You sure we got the right place?” 

“It’s definitely here,” Sam replied from further away. He nodded towards the dirt. “There are holes where the tent pegs were a few nights ago. It has to be here.” 

A chill wind was picking up, ruffling through Dean’s hair and finding gaps in his clothes. He suppressed a shiver and tugged his jacket closer to his body as he straightened. “Huh. Werewolves’re usually sloppier than this.” 

“Perhaps this one is smarter than we thought,” Castiel suggested. He, unlike the brothers, was standing facing out from the tiny clearing, keeping watch. Blue eyes roved through the shadows that were untouched by their narrow beams of torchlight, his brows crinkled as if in thought. 

“Doubt it. Once the hunger gets ‘em, they don’t hang around.” 

“Like yourself.” 

Dean shot a grin at Castiel, inclining his head. “Okay, I’ll give you that one.” He saw Castiel’s lips working to suppress a smile, and his own widened. 

A steady increase in the pattering overheard alerted them to the rain turning, becoming heavier. The leaves of the trees rustled as wind whirled through them. Dean hissed between his teeth, the brief flash of a good mood dribbling away. 

“Can we call it a night? I’m freezing my balls off here.” 

“Dean, that’s not-” 

“Figure of speech.” 

“We might as well,” Sam agreed, sighing. “We’re not gonna accomplish anything like this. Let’s just go back and try again tomorrow.” 

And so, soaked and freezing, the trio headed back to their cabin, arguing who would get to use the shower first. Dean won by using the ‘I’m sleeping on the couch’ card, and Sam allowed Castiel to go ahead of him since he’d been standing around and would therefore be the coldest. 

In the end, it didn’t matter, as the water was crappy and cold, too. 

Dean huddled down under the spare duvet on his couch, pressing his cheek into the pillow. His toes still felt like lumps of ice stuck to the bigger lumps of ice that were his feet, so he’d worn socks to bed, hoping the extra layer would provide him with some much needed warmth. At this moment, he appreciated the bunker’s constantly perfect temperature much more than he had in months. 

Just as Dean felt himself beginning to doze off, he heard the snick of a door being opened quietly. He cracked open an eye, eyebrows drawing together when the unmistakable shape of Castiel crept out of his room. 

“Cas?” Dean asked softly. 

Castiel huffed, shoulders lowering slightly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.” 

“No problem.” Dean shifted upwards a little, propping his shoulders up on the arm of the couch while tugging the duvet up to keep himself covered. There was no need to let in any cold air. “What’re you up to?” 

“I’m getting a glass of water.” Castiel moved through the shadows again, a slightly darker shape on an already dark background. Dean tracked him through the gloom. “I’m unable to sleep. I thought a drink might help me to settle.” 

“Got much on your mind?” 

“Yes.” 

There was the squeak of the tap and the whoosh of water. Castiel walked to the table and sat with his glass, sipping at it. Dean was content to let the silence linger, his thoughts drifting as well as his wakefulness, only to be brought back to alertness when Castiel spoke again. 

“Dean, may I tell you something?” 

“Sure, Cas.” He rubbed at his eyes with his knuckles furiously. He wouldn’t fall asleep while in the middle of a conversation, no matter how tired he was. 

“The forest feels wrong.” 

“Come again?” 

“I mean that there’s something we’re not getting.” Castiel’s frustration was leaking into his voice in the form of a little puff of breath and a slight firmness in his speech. “I recognise the… the aura, but I can’t place it.” He sighed. Dean saw the movement of a shrug, the very human gesture odd on his friend. “Or perhaps it’s merely wishful thinking.” 

Ah. His powers. Of course he’d miss them; it was only natural. Dean felt a stab of sympathy for Castiel, suddenly wishing he could do something to restore them. (Although, maybe a little selfishly, Dean wanted Castiel to stay like this, free from Heaven’s poisonous touch.) 

“Don’t sweat it,” Dean said. “We can check it out tomorrow. No harm in it. It might be a lead.” 

“Thank you,” Castiel answered, relieved. 

Quiet settled around them again, but it was easier now. Castiel only got up to put his glass in the sink; Dean expected him to go back to his room, which was why he was surprised when he came and sat on the floor by Dean’s makeshift bed, his back to the couch. He wasn’t going to complain about the company, but he didn’t think he’d be able to stay awake much longer. 

“You should get some rest, Cas,” Dean murmured. 

There was a soft rustle as Castiel turned his head towards him. Dean imagined his lips pinching together. “I can’t.” 

Dean’s heart sank. “Nightmares back?” 

Castiel nodded and gave this little sigh that was just _heartbreaking_. “It was improving,” he said quietly. 

He’d been doing so well, in fact, that he hadn’t required the comforting presence of a friend beside him to sleep peacefully. Dean and Castiel had been able to return to their own beds instead of sharing, safe in the knowledge that they’d both get a full night’s rest. To have that progress ruined made it feel like they were taking one step forward and two back. 

Dean sat up, scrubbing a hand across his face. “C’mon. I’ll go back with you. This couch is gonna kill my back if I stay.” 

It was obvious even through the dark that Castiel immediately perked up, like a dog offered a walk. Dean took his duvet and pillow with him, thinking he could get Castiel to bundle up on one side of the bed while he took the other. 

He lay on his side, facing Castiel, and closed his eyes, preparing to sleep. What he hadn’t accounted for, however, was his friend snuggling up right close like he’d never done before, worming closer in his duvet cocoon until he had his head shoved up under Dean’s chin and his hands balled up between them. Castiel’s hair tickled Dean’s nose; he wriggled it, fighting back the urge to sneeze. 

“Cas?” he whispered, raising an eyebrow. 

His reply was a long, relaxed exhale. “Yes, Dean?” 

He didn’t have the heart to ruin this moment. Dean found his arms around Castiel, squeezing lightly. “Sleep well, buddy.” 

* * *

Dean was alone when he woke. Castiel’s duvet was a lump at the foot of his bed, his pillow skewed against the wall from where he’d abandoned it in favour of Dean’s shoulder. The man himself was, judging by the chatter from the living room, up and about with Sam. 

In all the time Dean had spent comforting Castiel through the nights, he’d never really _cuddled_ him. Sure, he’d hugged him, thrown an arm around his shoulders when he woke from a particularly nasty nightmare, but it was never before they started. He was usually just a presence, the knowledge that a friend was there doing wonders for Castiel’s sleeping habits. 

This, like everything else that was toeing the line with Castiel, he put in a mental box and tucked away in a corner of his mind. 

The wonderful scent of coffee filtered through the door; never mind that it was the worst he’d ever tasted, Dean wanted some of that, so he rolled out of bed and went to join the others. The old pipes groaned as he reached the door, forcing water through them. 

He poked his head out, looking around the corner into the tiny kitchen. Sam was sat at the table, on his laptop – when wasn’t he? Dean thought – nursing a cup of said crappy coffee. Castiel was the one in the shower, then. His brother looked up when Dean went to retrieve a mug, and when Dean caught his eyes, he realised he’d made a mistake. 

He’d come out of Castiel’s room without explanation after saying he’d sleep on the couch. 

_Fuck._

Sam’s grin said it all. 

“Before you ask, no,” Dean said firmly, eyebrows raised as he stared Sam down. “Nothing happened.” 

Sam smirked and looked away. He said nothing. 

“Seriously, Sam.” 

“Sure. You’re being pretty defensive, you know.” 

“You are the very definition of ‘asshole’.” Dean dropped into one of the other chairs heavily, taking a huge gulp of his coffee. He hissed between his teeth when he burned his tongue on it. 

Sam closed the lid of his laptop, leaning forwards. “Would it be so bad?” 

Dean’s brows drew together, playing at confusion even though he knew where this conversation was going. “What, for you to be the definition of ‘asshole’?” 

“No, you dick.” Sam aimed a kick at his leg under the table, but after years of living with his brother, Dean saw it coming from a mile off and avoided it. “If you and Cas were a _thing_.” 

No, no, no, no. Sam wasn’t allowed to suggest that, he wasn’t _allowed_ to open that damn box in his head with all of the thoughts he’d carefully tucked away, deep down, so they couldn’t dig in their roots. If Dean really thought about it, the ideas would gain power, they’d build until he couldn’t ignore them and then he’d do something to ruin his friendship with Castiel. Friends were a limited resource these days. 

Besides, he was no good. He had an abundance of problems, some waiting in the wings to pounce at inopportune moments; he would always choose Sam over anyone else when it came down to it, which was kind of a deal-breaker for most people; the last almost stable relationship he’d had had been Lisa and he’d screwed that one up, and he didn’t even know if he could really call it stable. 

Hell, Dean didn’t even know if he could let someone in. He didn’t know if he was even capable of feeling that kind of love when there was the chance it could be snatched away by death. 

He wasn’t good enough. 

In response to Sam’s question, Dean turned his head away, glaring at the carpet with a clenched jaw. “Yes,” he said, “it would.” 

“Why?” Sam demanded. It was like Sam was a kid all over again, asking ‘why?’ about everything. Why was the sky blue? Why wasn’t Mom around? Why wouldn’t Dean admit to feeling something more for Castiel? 

_Because it is. Because she isn’t. Because I won’t._

“Sam,” Dean growled warningly. 

His brother cast a furtive glance to the bathroom door, checking for Castiel, but the pipes still clanked and squeaked; he was still busy. Good for Sam, bad for Dean. 

“You’re missing out on a good thing here, Dean,” Sam said calmly. “Things like this don’t turn up often. Don’t just throw it away because you’re being a stubborn ass.” 

Dean abandoned his cup-o’-sludge, choosing to pace like a caged animal instead. “There are a billion reasons why it’s not a good idea,” he snapped. His shoulders hunched, creating a shield between the two of them. It was classic Dean behaviour, maybe even learned from his time in Hell. _Make yourself small and they might forget about you._

“Name them.” 

“For fuck’s sake!” Dean turned towards Sam, twitchy energy bubbling under his skin. He needed to _do_ something; there was no shooting range he could go to, no chairs that he could kick with a good conscience – these would probably break if he even knocked them over by accident. 

He was trapped. 

“Leave it alone, Sam.” Dean stomped away again, only this time he made for his boots by the door. He crouched, pulling them on with jerky movements. 

“Where are you going?” 

“I’m taking a walk. We are never talking about this again, you hear me? Leave it.” He slammed the door behind him, cold air rushing across his heated face. It was biting, already making his nose hurt, and it was just what he needed to cool off. 

* * *

“I suck at matchmaking,” Sam sighed. 

* * *

Castiel remained blissfully unaware that such a conversation had passed between the brothers. He could sense the slightly frosty air between the two as they headed out again, but he chose to ignore it; Dean was the common denominator concerning the two times this had happened now, so he must have done something. It was hardly a surprise. 

The three of them set out in daylight this time. The sunlight, however, was watery, and the breeze kept up the chill from the evening before. Castiel drew his coat closer to himself, suppressing a shudder. It only reached his waist, as his trench was still back at the bunker, unfortunately. 

The scene was as they had left it: barely disturbed, the same dark patch in the same place, the faint impressions of their boots in the dirt. 

Also, Castiel noticed, the feeling had returned. It was a gentle nudge at his mind, reminding him of the sensation of joining minds with another angel- 

Castiel inhaled sharply, eyes widening. 

That was what it was. There was nothing else it could possibly be. The undertone of love and acceptance was missing, of course, but there was no denying what it really was. 

“There’s an angel here,” he said softly. 

The quiet – albeit stiff – chatter between the brothers stopped at his words. Castiel turned on the spot, directing his gaze out at the forest. Who would it be this time? Like the others he’d encountered, would they try to kill him? 

“Pardon?” Sam said. 

“An angel,” Castiel repeated, not daring to look over at him. “An angel is in the forest.” He did, however, glance over at Dean, who’d moved to stand beside him. “The feeling I told you about, it’s back. It can’t be anything else.” 

“Why would an angel be here?” Dean asked. His hand twitched at his side; Castiel remembered seeing him conceal a gun in his waistband. Sam had done the same, but Castiel had selected the angel blade he’d been fortunate enough to get hold of. It was tucked inside his sleeve like his old one, even though it didn’t feel right with a different coat and a stolen blade, one that rightfully belonged to another angel. 

“They hunted me in my time away.” 

A hand on his shoulder pulled him around to face Dean. He scowled at Castiel, who frowned right back. “And you were gonna tell us this when?” 

“When it became important,” he replied shortly. “If you recall, I told the two of you that I wasn’t comfortable with speaking about what happened yet, and that I would tell you when I felt able.” 

Dean pressed his lips into a thing line and dropped his hand. “Fine.” He yanked the gun from his belt, cocking it. Castiel returned his attention to the trees. 

Now that he was actively trying, he found he could manipulate his own mental voice to a degree; instead of being unable to reach for another being with his mind like a human, some range remained from being filled with Grace. He grasped for the threads of connection with the angel, but it was flicked away. Either it was trying to hide something, or it simply didn’t want to join with him. 

Neither thought was comforting. 

Bushes rustled to his right. Logically, he knew that they wouldn’t have done so if the angel didn’t want them to notice it, but it didn’t stop him from moving so his back was to the Winchesters – a tiny, quick glance over his shoulder showed him that they had done the same so they could watch from all angles – and let the blade fall into his hand. 

The familiar touch of the metal soothed his rattled nerves. It wasn’t quite the same as holding his own blade, the one that had been made specifically for his hand by God Himself; this one had subtle grooves in its handle that were meant for another angel’s fingers, but his own fit it well enough. 

Castiel didn’t let his guard down even when he recognised the angel that came forwards as being one that had been friendly before. 

Her vessel was dark-skinned and round-faced, with pretty brown eyes that expressed calmness. Her hair was tied back in a messy bun to keep it out of her way. In contrast with the practicality of the her choices with her hair, her clothing would get in the way if she tried to do much work. A dress was not, in Castiel’s opinion, appropriate attire for an angel such as Orifiel, who had been tasked with the care of the forests and their creatures. 

“Castiel,” she greeted, inclining her head. It was the kindest greeting he had received from one of his fellows yet. 

“Orifiel,” he replied. 

A shuffle behind him told him that Sam and Dean had turned to stand either side of him. “Ori- who?” Dean interrupted. 

Castiel’s lips twitched with the hint of a smile, which he pressed back down. “Orifiel,” he repeated, “is her name. Orifiel, these are my friends-” 

“Sam and Dean Winchester,” she finished. Unlike Castiel, she’d allowed an amused ghost of a smile to grace her lips. Objectively, he supposed it was quite a pretty smile. “Of course. I wouldn’t expect you to be with anyone else.” 

As they spoke, small animals began to creep from the undergrowth, naturally drawn to Orifiel even though her power was supposedly depleted. First came birds, perching on her shoulders for brief moments before fluttering away. Then, out of the corner of his eye, Castiel saw a doe, stepping forward on uncertain hooves to nose at her elbow. She raised her muzzle, twitching her ears at Castiel curiously. 

“Why do they still trust you?” he asked, raising his eyes to Orifiel’s again. 

“We all retained some small amount of Grace,” she explained. She offered the doe her hand, but the movement spooked the gentle creature into skittering away into the safety of the trees. “Although it’s not enough for me to care for them as I should.” 

It made sense. Grace was an angel’s essence, so to have it all removed would be to erase the angel. This begged the question of whether Castiel had any lingering inside his body – he couldn’t answer it now. He would think about it later, preferably in the privacy of his bedroom. 

“My turn.” Orifiel took in the three men before her, her eyes pausing on their weapons with distaste. “Why are you in my forest?” 

As Sam spoke, Castiel detected curiosity underneath the wariness in his voice. He knew that Dean would simply be firm and cautious if he talked again. “There was a werewolf here a few days ago,” Sam answered. “It killed two men. We’ve come to get rid of it so no one else gets hurt.” 

Surprisingly, Orifiel nodded. “I know. I have already rid my home of it and cleaned up after it. There shouldn’t be many physical traces left, if there are any. If that's all you came here for, then I have no quarrel with you.” 

“So this trip was pointless,” Dean grumbled. Castiel sensed his mood worsening, already foul after whatever had transpired between him and Sam. “Great.” 

“Not necessarily.” Orifiel clasped her hands in front of her. Brown eyes fixed on blue, unwavering. “I needed to pass on a warning to Castiel.” 

He moved forwards, lowering his angel blade. Orifiel’s vessel was petite – the top of her head barely came up to Castiel’s chin – and it gave the illusion of her being weak. Castiel knew far better. He was taking a considerable risk in standing in range of her reach, especially given the situation between him and the angels. 

“I suggest that you give your warning and let us leave,” Castiel informed her plainly. “I don’t want anyone to be hurt here.” 

Orifiel inclined her head, acknowledging his words. “Colopatiron is assembling the angels,” she said. “She intends to reopen Heaven and restore us to our rightful place. For now, she has the others under her control. I doubt it will remain that way for very long. Sooner or later, they will ignore her orders and find you with the intention of killing you for what you have done.” 

“They’ve already attempted it.” 

“And?” 

“They’re dead.” 

She seemed satisfied. Orifiel nodded once more, skipping back a step. “You would do well to watch your back, brother. Paschar is working with Colopatiron, and you know how dangerous his visions of Heaven have always been.” 

Castiel grimaced, looking up at the sky, as if he could see his old home. “I’ll keep it in mind. Thank you, sister.” 

“Remember that I remain neutral in this battle,” Orifiel added. She turned her back, starting off after her beloved animals. “If you ever need my assistance, pray for me and I will come. I may not arrive immediately, but I will come.” 

“Thank you once again.” Castiel copied Orifiel’s pivot, only he moved back to the Winchesters. Dean had not yet taken his eyes off of Orifiel, while Sam looked between them both. “Safe travels, Orifiel.” 

“Good luck, Castiel.” 

He directed them towards the cabin, intent on returning as soon as possible now that there was no werewolf to kill. He was well aware of the eyes of his friends on his back; it felt like he could feel them burning into the skin of his nape. 

Castiel refused to acknowledge them until they were in the cabin, and even then the first thing he did was put the angel blade back in the weapons bag and then go to his room to make sure he had everything packed. When he emerged, Sam and Dean were at the table, waiting. 

He was ready. 

Castiel seated himself, folding his hands in his lap. “It’s time that I explained to you what happened in my absence.” 

“No shit,” Dean muttered. 

Sam snorted. Castiel heard a thump, and Dean jerked in surprise. He inferred that Sam had kicked him under the table. “Go at your own pace,” Sam said gently. “There’s no rush.” 

Castiel offered Sam a small smiled as he released a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. “I’ll start with my last moments in Heaven with Metatron…”


	7. A Trip Down Memory Lane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs for this chapter:
> 
> Get Home - Bastille  
> Dirty Little Secret - All American Rejects

_“You promised,” Castiel growled. He was anxious at being strapped to the chair in Naomi’s office again, held down by bindings that were, sadly, familiar to him. Metatron fiddled with the various weapons on the tray next to the chair, but looked up when Castiel spoke._

_“Shh,” he hushed. “Castiel, I want you to stop thinking about master plans, Heaven and angels, and all this. That doesn’t concern you anymore.”_

_The scribe’s fingers twisted into Castiel’s hair and pulled his head back forcefully, smacking it into the head rest of the chair as he exposed his throat. Castiel swallowed, struggling to keep Metatron in his vision and to remain calm. The attempt at the latter melted away when his hand rose to reveal an angel blade._

_He held the tip to Castiel’s neck, and Castiel shifted, straining away from the sharp edge. It was no use; Metatron pressed, slicing through Castiel’s skin, letting the bright burn of his Grace seep through the cut._

_“They were never Trials, Castiel,” Metatron explained conversationally. “This is a spell. And what I’m taking from you now – your essence, your Grace – is the last piece.”_

_He held a small vial to the cut, and Castiel felt his Grace spill out into it, trickling away. His power fell down to levels lower than they’d ever been, even when he was falling – to fully human levels. Metatron passed his hand over the wound when it began to bleed, healing it before it could do any damage._

_“And now something wonderful is going to happen,” Metatron continued, a smile in his voice, “for me and for you. I want you to live this new life to the fullest. Find a wife. Make babies! And when you die and your soul comes to Heaven, find me. Tell me your story.”_

_Metatron smiled at Castiel indulgently, almost patronisingly, like he was speaking to a small child rather than an angel that had centuries under his belt. Castiel made an indecipherable noise, and Metatron’s smile widened. His hand shifted to Castiel’s forehead as he commanded, “Now go.”_

_Bright light filtered into Castiel’s vision at the words, blinding him, until he couldn’t see the office anymore. Instead, he could see trees, a dark night sky, and the blazing trails angels left on the inky black of it as they fell._

* * *

**TIME SINCE FALL – 12 HOURS AND 24 MINUTES**

Castiel was starving, but he had no idea what most of the things were on the menu. He recognised burgers, though, and that was good enough for him, so he bought one and a coke with his limited cash supply and took it back outside. 

The first bite was the closest to bliss he’d ever come. It actually wasn’t the best burger in existence – he knew that better ones were out there – but it filled his grumbling stomach and tasted wonderful. Feeling hungry was bizarre, as was the process of eating. The fizzy drink was stranger; while Castiel wasn’t particularly fond of the taste, it was fine for washing down his meal. 

The next step was finding his way to the bunker. 

He remembered where it was – Lebanon, Kansas – but there was still the matter of knowing where _he_ was. Of course, if he could be pointed in the correct direction it would be helpful. Perhaps purchasing a map was in order. 

But on the other hand, spending money on something that wasn’t vital wasn’t going to do him any good. He could ask for directions instead. Yes, that seemed like the best option. 

Where to begin? 

* * *

**NOW**

“Once I finished eating,” Castiel continued, “I found a bookstore and asked the woman behind the desk to point me towards Kansas.” 

Dean snorted, raising an eyebrow as he glanced sideways at Sam. The latter pressed his lips together, as if trying to hold in a chuckle. Castiel, seeing nothing amiss, carried on talking. 

“She was very kind. She told me where the bus stop was and how much I would have to pay, too.” A fond look crept into Castiel’s eyes, softening his features slightly. Aside from the Winchesters, it was rare that he had firsthand experience of the goodness of humanity. The woman had provided him with a glimpse of it. 

“What then?” Sam asked, prompting him. 

Castiel furrowed his brow thoughtfully. “I rode the bus for a short way. If I’d had the money, I would have found another to take me the entire way, but I needed to preserve what I had. My first night was uneventful.” 

* * *

**TIME AFTER FALL – 20 HOURS AND 54 MINUTES**

The bus had been a safe shell for Castiel to regroup in. It was warm and buzzing with humans – _other_ humans, he reminded himself; he was one of them now, and he should start to think of himself as one – and there had been no signs of anyone that might be potentially threatening amongst the throng. One elderly woman had even sat with him and talked about her garden for a while, which had led Castiel to discuss the brilliance of bees with her. 

She left several hours before he stepped off of the bus, however, with a cheerful farewell and a promise to look after her flowers. Castiel wasn’t entirely sure where it was that he ended up on his stop, but the line was, apparently, at its end, so he had to leave where he was. 

He felt bare out in the open. Night was falling again, cool air setting in even through his warm trench coat. His stomach growled, despite the fact that he’d eaten what was, to him, a short while ago. How often would he need to find sustenance? 

Castiel wriggled his toes in his shoes, as if he could dislodge the coldness in them. It didn’t work, of course, and he was left with the impression that his toes were becoming little cuboids of ice. 

He was in a nondescript little town, much like the one he’d left behind that morning. The road ran straight through and out the other side without even bending once; one or two shops lined either side of the road, but it was mostly made up of houses. 

There was a motel, but Castiel knew he wouldn’t be able to spare the money to book a room for the night, despite the cry of protest from his aching, tired body. Instead of the dirty looking motel, he turned towards the church on the corner. 

He considered that it might be a little wrong for him to approach it in need of help now, after abandoning faith, old friends, and familiarity in favour of free will. A tiny smile pulled on the corner of Castiel’s lips, one that was only slightly humoured by the situation, because in reality, he didn’t find it funny at all. It was actually horrifying to realise how far he’d fallen in such a short time of his existence, all for two boys- 

* * *

**NOW**

“ _Boys?_ You’re makin’ it sound like we’re kids!” 

“Dean, _shut up and let Cas talk._ ” 

* * *

**TIME AFTER FALL – 20 HOURS AND 56 MINUTES**

-all for two boys who he might never have met if Dean had never gone to hell. It was entirely possible that another angel might have reached him first. 

Castiel felt his very soul recoil at the wrongness of that thought. Any other angel wouldn’t have helped the Winchesters through as much as he had; he doubted they’d even still be around. There was only so much they could do on their own. 

The church was the best kept building in the entire town. It was small, true, but deceptively so; upon entering, Castiel saw a fair number of rows of pews for its size, with an altar at the far end, half hidden in shadow. The door squealed with its thirst for oil on its hinges as he pushed it open. 

Nobody came to greet him. Castiel was able to let himself in without fuss. He didn’t even think before he took a seat at the very back. 

It used to be that he could find solace in a building of God. Now he felt like a stranger invited into an acquaintance’s home. He hoped it wouldn’t be the same when he returned to the bunker. 

On the other hand, he would deserve it for all he had done, wouldn’t he? 

Castiel sagged where he sat, sliding down the polished seat slightly until the backrest of the bench was pressing just underneath his shoulder blades. A ghost of pain passed through the points between them, and he winced. Sitting comfortably was turning out to be an issue; having his back ramrod straight was usually the answer, but he was too tired to try now. 

Nobody would mind if he took a nap in this church, would they? It was supposed to be a place of shelter, a sanctuary, a place to go when someone had nowhere else. 

Satisfied but still slightly wary, he moved down onto his side and attempted to get comfortable. When the awkward angle of his head was becoming irritating, he moved onto his front and used his arms as pillows. Instead of staring at the underside of the next pew, he closed his eyes, like he’d seen Sam and Dean do when they were trying to sleep. Within minutes, exhaustion seized him, pulling him under for the first time. 

There were no nightmares yet. He was far too tired to remember if he did have them, and as traumatising as it was to have his Grace yanked from his veins, those memories were forcibly repressed in order to keep him in some measure of control; there was no need to place himself under further distress with those thoughts when he needed his concentration elsewhere. 

He was woken by the trill of birds outside eagerly welcoming in the day. At some point during the night, he’d rolled and ended up with his face pressed against the back of the pew. He could smell the sharp scent of varnish from this close. 

Deciding to make his escape before the church lit up with life, Castiel got up, ignored his aching muscles, and slipped out again, leaving no sign that he’d ever been there. 

As he returned to the bus stop, intending to at least ride for as long as he could until he was somewhere busier, Castiel wondered whether churches could actually be a place of safety for him elsewhere. 

Unfortunately, there weren’t any sweet old women who would talk to him about their gardens on this bus. It was mostly empty except for the driver, a man who looked quite grumpy, and the fallen angel himself. 

* * *

**NOW**

“That was the pattern that I kept to until I started to be more careful with my money,” Castiel said. There was something almost faintly sheepish about his expression as he recalled his actions, which, while the topic was one that dampened the feeling of a job-well-done, was amusing for Sam and Dean. 

“Didn’t you say you walked after that?” the former asked. At Castiel’s nod, Dean whistled quietly. 

“That can’t have been fun. It took you, what, two weeks to get to the bunker?” 

“Yes. I stopped taking the bus after the second day, which was why it took so long.” 

“Well, kudos to you, man.” Impressed, Dean reached across the table to pat his shoulder. When he withdrew his hand, he stood, heading towards the tiny kitchen of their cabin. “Anyone mind if we break for food? I’ll make us somethin’ to eat before Cas carries on.” 

While Dean set about creating something edible from the food they had, Castiel brought a simple glass of water back to the table and took his seat again, sipping at it to cool his throat, a little sore from speaking. Sam stayed put, his gaze silently flicking between the two others as he waited. 

Dean didn’t do anything fancy. Three plates with sandwiches on were placed on the table, along with a beer for each of them. Castiel glanced at his warily over the rim of his glass, uncertain after his one and only experience with alcohol. 

“It’s one beer,” Dean chuckled, popping the lid on his. “Unless you’re like Garth, you’ll be fine.” 

Sam, who had been chewing a bite of his sandwich, snorted quietly. He swallowed before he elaborated for Castiel. “One beer and he was wasted.” 

“Last time, I had my Grace to dull the effect,” Castiel pointed out. Still, he reached for the bottle and opened it, and, before either of the brothers had time to comment, raised it to his lips for a large gulp. 

When he lowered it, Dean lifted his and tilted it towards Castiel before he took a more modest sip, smiling around the neck of the glass. Sam hid an amused smile behind the lip of his own. 

“So, Orifiel,” Sam started after a few minutes of comfortable eating. Castiel looked up in the middle of chewing, his eyebrows raised in a silent question. “That was her name, right?” 

“What about her?” 

“Did you know her before?” 

“We were acquaintances.” Castiel shrugged. “But then, all angels are. We were all in contact with one another unless we consciously made an effort to close off… ‘Angel Radio’, I think the term was that Dean used. 

“Orifiel and I were not especially close, but I was in contact with her more than some parts of Heaven. She is the Angel of the Forests, and it was fascinating to hear her speak about them. There were other angels that were more in tune with her particular division than me, but I still enjoyed her company.” 

“What about the other ones she mentioned?” Sam added. 

Unlike when he’d mentioned Orifiel, Castiel’s face darkened and he took a moment to reply, using his beer as an excuse to delay responding. “Colopatiron and Paschar.” 

It was a statement, not a question for clarification, and Sam still replied with “Yeah” anyway. Dean had been quiet so far, busy with his meal and silently listening, but now he raised his head, furrowed brow already in place. 

Castiel exhaled heavily through his nose and nudged away his plate which held the remnants of his sandwich. Instead, he rolled his beer bottle between his palms, a habit he’d clearly picked up from the Winchesters. When he spoke, his voice was measured and careful. 

“Colopatiron has always been a fearsome warrior,” he said slowly, “as has Paschar. It was inevitable that they would find a connection with one another, given that they are the Angels of Liberation and Visions, respectively. 

“Their titles lend themselves to being angels who would seek to free people – or other angels.” A tiny smile pulled on the corners of Castiel’s lips, but it only ended up making him look sad. “Ordinarily, I suppose I might celebrate this, given the circumstances with Heaven’s rulers lately, but…” 

“Lemme guess.” Dean sighed, pushing his chair back so he could stick his feet up on the empty seat. “Corrupt?” 

Castiel inclined his head. “Paschar is. I suppose being the Angel of Visions comes with the price of pressure, and with that, madness. In Heaven you would never find him without Colopatiron; she was his anchor into sanity. While that can be positive for him, it also allows him the opportunity to sway her. 

“The fact that Orifiel has felt the need to warn me is worrying, but when combined with the attacks I received while travelling to Kansas-” 

“Wait, wait, wait. Attacks? You never said anything about any attacks,” Dean interrupted, stern. 

“Then allow me to pick up my story,” Castiel answered, seemingly unbothered by his slip of the tongue. “I should add that I was very surprised to find an… old friend while I was on my journey, too.” 

* * *

**TIME SINCE FALL – 7 DAYS**

It happened on an open road. The sky was light with stars above Castiel, the swollen moon providing the only light that he could see by. There was a chilling breeze that managed to find gaps in his trench coat and bite at his skin, forcing him to button and tie it around himself, but it still crawled in. 

It began with fleeting shadows out of the corners of his eyes. To begin with, Castiel dismissed them as animals loping along on the edge of his vision. When they returned, he decided it was foolish to brush them off. 

However, he didn’t act. He just kept walking. 

His feet throbbed from walking all day already, but stopping now was not an option, not when he was being followed and there was nowhere he could cover in sigils to stay safe. 

The only warning Castiel was given when the shadow – singular, he’d realised, there was only one – stumbled over its own feet. Knowing its cover was blown, it surged towards him, arm raised, angel blade glinting in the moonlight. 

Castiel’s reactions were automatic. He sidestepped, seized the arm of the angel, and reached forward with his palm- 

Only to freeze when he remembered that he couldn’t smite his enemy. 

The angel took advantage by throwing him off, sending Castiel sprawling on the tarmac. He skinned his palms as he threw them out to catch his fall; the scrape and resulting pain made him gasp in surprise. 

In seconds, the other angel was upon him, straddling his waist and poising the blade over his chest. Castiel growled and made to sit up, but some invisible force kept him pinned at the wrists. _Grace_ , the angel still had _Grace_. 

Castiel was going to die without ever getting to apologise to his friends. 

He bucked desperately, unseating the angel. He fell to the side with a grunt, the blade falling from his grip and skittering away, along with his hold on Castiel. Scrambling onto his hands and knees, Castiel leaped for the blade, determined to reach it first. 

Just as the tips of his fingers touched the hilt, hands locked around his right ankle and yanked. He slid backwards, hurting his hands further as he searched for purchase on the rough road. Castiel resorted to kicking backwards, and was rewarded with a crunch and a cry after only a couple of jerks. 

The window of opportunity presented itself, and Castiel forced himself through it. He sprang forwards again, finally grabbing the cool metal handle of the angel blade. It wasn’t his own blade, so it tingled faintly and curiously at him before deciding to at least stem the flow of blood from his grazes. 

Castiel pushed himself to his feet, turning with a swish of his coat. The angel did the same, looking worse for wear with the trickles of red dribbling from his broken nose. 

His gaze flicked down to the blade in Castiel’s hand briefly, anger lighting up his expression when he looked back up. “That’s mine,” he spat – literally spitting, coating the road at his feet in red drops. 

Castiel leaned into a slight hunting crouch, ignoring the way his wings didn’t spread to balance him. “Take it,” Castiel replied, voice cold. 

The angel roared as he lunged, rage and eagerness making him sloppy, which was all Castiel needed. He simply stepped towards his assailant, thrust the blade forwards and up behind his ribs. Light poured from the angel’s eyes and mouth as he died, but it was weak and watery from what remained of his Grace. Castiel could feel its pitiful twists as it tried to free itself and escape the vessel before it shivered and gave up, leaving the body empty. 

Castiel let the blade slide from it, and the body dropped to the ground in a heap. He lingered long enough to clean the angel blade on the vessel’s clothing; even though he was panting and more exhausted than before, Castiel quickly turned and forced himself to jog away from the scene of the crime. 

He had no doubt that the vessel’s family had noticed its absence and had put out a search for him. Modern technology meant that even if they did find traces of him there, they wouldn’t be able to follow him, as Jimmy Novak was officially dead, and had been for years. 

That didn’t mean that he was safe, though. If angels were following him, he needed to protect himself quickly. All he had was a stolen angel blade, and he doubted he could afford a tattoo of Enochian right now. 

A pen, however, he _could_ buy. 

Along with food, it was the first thing he bought when he found his next town, several hours after he’d been accosted. He was weary with sleep and hunger, but once the latter was sated, he found himself thinking clearer. Once he was safely tucked in a stall in a public bathroom, Castiel lifted his shirt and wrote upside-down on his stomach. 

It wasn’t very imaginative, but it would cover him until he had settled somewhere long enough to do it more thoroughly. After a moment’s thought, he drew the anti-possession tattoo the Winchesters had on his hip next to the Enochian. 

* * *

**TIME SINCE FALL – 9 DAYS**

Castiel wasn’t bothered for a couple of days, and when he did eventually come across a familiar face, it wasn’t one that was out to kill him – immediately, anyway. 

He was in a diner, enjoying the first full meal he’d had in a while, when someone slid into the seat opposite with a cup of what smelled like tea. Castiel lifted his gaze from his plate to offer a greeting to his companion, only to find himself looking at Crowley. 

The King of Hell certainly didn’t look very kingly. In fact, he looked how Castiel felt most of the time now: there were shadows under his eyes, he was thinner, and he had a hunted look about him. 

Crowley raised his cup and an eyebrow, as if toasting to something. “Lovely to see you again, Cas.” 

Castiel swallowed the last mouthful of his dinner and moved the plate to the side, all the while casting wary glances at the demon. “Crowley,” he replied, inclining his head slightly. 

Clicking his tongue, Crowley swivelled so his back was to the wall and raised his teacup to his lips. “Rude,” he quipped. 

“How are you here?” Castiel asked. Uneasy, he shifted a hand to his pocket, feeling the now-familiar weight of the angel blade inside it. The weapon had come to accept him as its new owner when it no longer felt the Grace of its original angel, but Castiel still missed his own. 

“Straight to business, as always. A little chitchat would be nice sometimes, you know.” Crowley sighed, staring into the depths of his tea as he swirled it a little. “Your charming pets saw fit to let me go. Don’t ask me why, though; I don’t kiss and tell.” 

It was tempting to pounce on the point of Crowley calling Sam and Dean his pets or the implications of the ‘kiss and tell’ part, but Castiel refrained, as there were more important matters. “Why shouldn’t I ask?” 

When Crowley merely mimed locking his lips and dunking the key in his drink, Castiel exhaled heavily in frustration. Crowley laughed, setting his cup down so he could lace his fingers together and lean forwards. “Now _that’s_ more like the Castiel I know and love! Moody, broody, and everything in between.” 

Castiel didn’t have the patience to sit there and listen to Crowley tease him. He just wanted to keep walking to Kansas so he might truly settle and rest properly for once. He made to stand, gathering his coat about himself and getting to his aching feet. 

A hand on his sleeve stopped him. Castiel touched his pocket in warning, gaze sharpening as he turned it back on Crowley. 

He was surprised to find that the demon looked _pleading_. Sam had been turning Crowley human, hadn’t he? Had the effects perhaps stayed with him, despite the obviously failed attempt to cure him? It would be bizarre to come to terms with Crowley actually caring for once. 

Crowley was his enemy, and Castiel had enough on his plate without whatever it was he wanted, so he jerked his sleeve away and left. 

Of course it would be just his luck that angels – three of them, this time – found him as soon as he was ducking down an alley. They caught him off guard and even though he managed to swiftly put one down with his quick reflexes, he was outmatched in his state. 

Before he even had time to worry, someone else was joining the fray, neatly disposing of one of the angels so Castiel could easily end the other. And, naturally, it was Crowley that was standing there and twirling an angel blade of his own, probably pilfered from a corpse. 

“Why don’t we keep each other company for a while?” Crowley suggested with a raised eyebrow. 

* * *

**NOW**

“You said ‘yes’, didn’t you,” Dean stated, interrupting Castiel. At his friend’s nod, he sighed, shaking his head back and forth slightly. 

“It was a mutually beneficial agreement, not a demon deal.” 

The three of them had long since finished their beers, and while Sam and Dean had another, Castiel was nursing a fresh glass of water, as his first had warmed as it sat there. “There was nothing tying us to each other; it was simply for the sake of protection,” he added. There was the familiarity as well, perhaps, but he carefully didn’t mention that. 

“Did he tell you anything?” Sam prodded. “Anything about anything? Heaven or Hell?” 

“He mentioned that Abaddon has installed herself as the new Queen of Hell,” Castiel recalled, “and that he was unhappy with her changes. We came across a demon at one point – apparently, they are searching for Crowley like the angels are hunting for me – and he told us that the order of Crowley’s Hell was gone. Apparently, it’s all chaos again.” Castiel’s lips twisted, caught between amusement and a grimace. 

“Crowley’s company turned out to be more pleasant than I originally thought it would,” he confessed, “and I think that might be due to your attempts to turn him human.” 

Castiel looked down at the table and smiled briefly, sadly. “We had a lot in common with our situations; both of us forced out of our old homes, both human or nearing it… Although he floundered less than I did with settling into _how_ to be human.” 

"Figures,” Sam huffed, a corner of his mouth pulling down. 

“We parted only a few days later. My journey was delayed slightly, as I had to take a different route and then retrace my steps so Crowley wouldn’t know the bunker’s location.” 

A pleased and proud smile spread across Dean’s face instantly, and he reached across to lightly punch his arm. “That’s my boy!” 

Castiel mirrored the smile faintly as he lifted a hand to rub at the spot on his arm. “I was a skilled tactician in Heaven,” he reminded him. “It was a simple decision to make. I’m fairly sure Crowley picked up on it, which is why he decided to leave.” 

Dean’s mood sobered again a little as he became curious instead. “He chose to go?” 

“Yes.” Castiel nodded, gaze drifted as he remembered the conversation. “By that point, it was… the twelfth day, I think.” 

* * *

**TIME SINCE FALL – 12 DAYS**

Over the course of their three days together, Castiel and Crowley had been accosted by bands of angels and demons alike, but thankfully they remained separate entities. Castiel’s warding only worked for himself, unfortunately; once the angels caught wind that he was with Crowley, they tracked him instead, and after that Castiel didn’t have an opportunity to renew his scribbles when he was almost constantly with the demon. It was difficult enough to hold off the ever-growing numbers of one side – the angels had realised that Castiel was fighting back, so they were sending larger groups – and he dreaded to think what would happen if the two joined forces. 

Crowley announced that he would be leaving when they were in a similar situation to when they’d met up: they were in a cheap diner, eating the crappy food to fill their stomachs, when Crowley set his cutlery in a cross over his empty plate and wiped his mouth with a napkin. As he delicately folded it to place it by his knife and fork, he said, “I’ll be leaving you tonight, Cas.” 

Castiel’s last bite hovered in front of him as he frowned at his companion. They weren’t friends, far from it, but in their time together an uneasy truce had been formed. He wouldn’t go so far as to say that he enjoyed his company; no, a better description would be he was glad for someone familiar to talk to, even if things had been very unpleasant between them as of late. 

“Why?” he asked simply. 

“Because I suspect that Abaddon is on my tail,” he replied matter-of-factly. “And as much as I’d love to see what she’d do with you, I doubt I’d be able to witness it, and I want the pleasure of finishing you myself.” 

It was a stark reminder of the very real situation they were in. They were on two different sides to the same war, and even if Crowley was, at the moment, forced into being a bystander, Castiel couldn’t afford to be caught and dragged down to Hell. Doing so would eliminate all of his progress towards the Winchesters so far. 

“It was a pleasure seeing you again,” Crowley continued, brushing invisible crumbs off of his hands. He even looked better after spending some time with a partner in crime, Castiel thought. He still had the look of a hunted rabbit about him, but there was a little more of that old glitter in his eyes. “I look forward to meeting another time, perhaps under our usual circumstances.” 

“That would be a relief,” Castiel agreed. He finally took the last bite of his meal, savouring it, as it would be his last for several hours. His money was really dwindling now; he hoped he had enough to get him to the bunker. 

It was bizarrely bittersweet when they stepped out of the diner to say farewell. Crowley sighed, letting his gaze roam out across the street while Castiel checked his few belongings, as was his habit now. 

When he looked up, he found a hand offered to him. Crowley raised an eyebrow, a soft laugh escaping him when Castiel hesitated. “No tricks. Just a friendly handshake to say goodbye.” 

Castiel grasped Crowley’s hand, letting them shake briefly. “Forgive me for remaining wary after everything that has happened.” 

“Apology accepted.” Their hands dropped back to their sides, Crowley’s sliding into his pocket while Castiel’s simply hung there. “Well, I must be going. Do try to keep yourself safe, Cas. I’d like the pleasure of welcoming you to Hell personally.” 

That was the kindest goodbye Castiel knew he’d receive, so he took it. He inclined his head instead of making his own little farewell speech and set off again. 

Castiel didn’t go back on track for another day; he’d checked for signs of being followed, and while he couldn’t find anything from anyone, he was still wary. When nothing showed itself, however, he finally, _finally_ refocused on his destination. 

* * *

  
****

**NOW**

Castiel took a long draught of his water before he finished his tale. His throat was sore from speaking, and if he looked out of the curtains he could see the sunrise just peeking up through the trees. He wondered how long he’d been talking for. 

“A few days later, I arrived at the bunker,” he finished. “As of yet, no angels or demons have succeeded in finding me. I recommend that Kevin writes Enochian on himself as well when we return.” 

Sam stood, stretching his arms over his head and clicking his back. “Yeah. We should probably head back today, too.” 

“Gotta make sure Kevin hasn’t thrown any parties while we were gone,” Dean joked. Sam had spurred everyone into action; Castiel and Dean went to collect their bags in preparation for leaving, too. 

As Castiel checked that he had all of his clothing, he noticed that his shoulders felt lighter than before. It wasn’t the missing weight of his wings that had made this change, but unloading his time away on his friends. He actually felt relaxed, which was still a difficult sensation to accomplish sometimes. 

As he zipped up his bag, he smiled.

__


	8. Who You Gonna Call? Winchesters!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs for this chapter:
> 
> Ghostbusters Theme - Ray Parker, Jr.

After the fake werewolf killings, cases dried up for a while. None of them were willing to make long trips that would take them out of the reach of the bunker and Kevin, so instead of running around like headless chickens to try to find something to do, Sam, Dean, and Castiel settled into a fairly domestic routine.

Dean would cook breakfast for them all. Then there would be relaxed mornings, followed by a bit of practise in the afternoon – shooting or fighting, depending on who was up for what. And then there was bickering over who got the first shower, dinner that Dean would also commandeer (sometimes, Sam or Castiel would help, though), and then bed. Since Kevin hadn’t figured anything out from the Tablet and there was no angel chatter, there was little else they could do. 

It felt weird to Dean. He’d never really had much of a routine, not even when he was living with Lisa and Ben; it had been disturbed by nightmares or paranoia. This was entirely new to him. 

He wasn’t sure whether he was pleased or not when he got a call from Charlie that would surely disturb this peace. 

It was during breakfast, so he put his mobile on the table and turned on speakerphone. Her typical greeting of _“Hey, bitches!”_ caught the attention of Sam and Castiel, but not Kevin; he hadn’t left his room yet. 

“Hey, Charlie!” Sam chirped – actually _chirped_ , even though it was still early. 

“How are the two of you even this happy?” Dean grumbled, standing to refill his coffee cup. “It’s, like, nine.” 

“Nine o’clock is a perfectly reasonable time to be awake,” Castiel replied, lifting a strip of bacon to his mouth. 

There was a pause from Charlie, and as Dean returned to the table, he really hoped that she wasn’t going to spill what he’d said last time they’d met. _“Is this the elusive Castiel?”_ she asked. 

Surprised, Castiel looked up at Sam and Dean, eyebrows slightly heightened. “You mentioned me to her?” 

“Sure we did. You’re both family.” Dean then took a sip of scalding coffee, forgetting that it was hot when he did so, and almost burned his tongue in the process. He swallowed the liquid, wincing. 

_“_ Finally. _Thought I’d never get to hear from you!”_ Charlie’s sigh came over the line as a burst of static. _“Seriously, guys, you should’ve introduced us sooner. Anyway, I’ve found something for you guys again, if you want it.”_

“Dude, _yes._ Gimme.” Eagerly, Dean put down his mug and sat up, gaze zeroing in on his phone. “We’ve been sat around for ages.” 

“Dean’s been climbing the walls,” Sam agreed, huffing a soft laugh. 

“The distraction will be very welcome,” Castiel added. 

_“Okay, so.”_ Charlie cleared her throat, and Dean got the impression that she was going to tell them some kind of story, much like a parent might to their child. Which was bullshit anyway, because she was younger than all three of them, so Dean batted the thought away. _“I was checking out this old mansion place, because I’d seen some talk about ghosts so I thought I’d take a look. There’s definite signs of ghosts.”_

“So we’re looking at a haunting?” Sam asked. 

_“Yep. And I dunno if it was just my reader, but it looked like a hell of a lot. Thought I’d call you guys for backup.”_

“Awesome. Text me the address and we’ll meet you there?” Dean drained his slightly cooler coffee and shoved the last bite of his breakfast in his mouth, ready to get packing. 

_“Sure thing. See you guys later.”_

“See you.” 

_“Nice to meet you, Cas!”_

As the line went dead and Dean put his phone away, Sam suggested, “Do you think we should call Garth, too?” 

“Yeah, good idea. If Charlie’s gonna do the hunting gig, she’s gotta know her contacts,” Dean agreed. He began gathering the plates with the intention of dumping them in the sink, but Castiel took them from him to wash up properly. “Would you mind giving him a call, Sammy? I’ll go grab our stuff.” 

It felt so natural to simply pass out the jobs like that, Dean mused as he arranged what they’d need to take with them – salt, guns, lighters, the usual. Domestic bliss didn’t suit him, but this set-up, one where they still took hunting jobs and had a home… 

_Yeah,_ he thought. That was perfect. 

* * *

The five of them met up on the country path that led up to the troubled house. Dean and Charlie tucked their respective cars in against the hedges so that the small group could meet and make a plan before they went to tackle the ghosts; Garth had said that he’d be a little late when Sam called, as he was trying to find a solution to another hunter’s problem at the same time, but he’d be along as soon as he could. 

Charlie was perched on the hood of her little car – a different one to the one she’d had last time; this one was a fading shade of yellow – with a little cheeky grin on her face when she caught sight of Dean. She hopped down, bounced over, and threw her arms around him. Dean breathed a laugh, returning the hug tightly. 

“We need to meet up more,” Charlie said firmly, poking him in the shoulder as she withdrew. “We only ever see each other when there’s something to hunt. We should have a real sleepover sometime soon.” 

She gave him a punch in the bicep for good measure before she moved on to give the same treatment to Sam. Dean tucked his hands into his pockets and leaned against the Impala’s doors, a fond smile on his lips. 

And then Charlie turned to Castiel. 

She looked him up and down while he watched her curiously, casting glances at Dean for guidance, who merely smirked back. Apparently having passed some kind of test, Charlie gave him a nod of approval and said, “Nice to meet you at last, Cas.” 

Castiel inclined his head and replied, “And you, Charlie.” 

It was at that moment that the cough of a dying engine alerted them to the presence of the last member of their group; Garth’s car rambled up the dirt track towards them, jerking to a halt behind Charlie’s. 

The man himself hopped out, a lazy grin on his lips as he ambled over. Of course, the first thing he did was hug Sam and Dean, like Charlie had done, and he tipped his hat to Castiel. “How’s it goin’?” he greeted, stepping back to get a look at them all. 

Dean noticed the exact moment when he spotted Charlie. Garth’s eyebrows rose slightly with interest, and Dean was about to interrupt when he saw Charlie shake her head slightly at him. 

“And hell _o_ ,” Garth said, emphasising the ‘o’. In the privacy of his own mind, Dean called him a dork. “Gotta say, you’re much prettier in person, Charlie.” 

She offered her hand to shake, which Garth took and pumped a couple of times. Before she could get a reply in, Sam butted in. “‘Prettier in person’?” he quoted. 

“We’ve been talking over Skype,” Charlie said offhandedly. “Garth’s been showing me the ropes of hunting. We figured it’d be better than talking over the phone.” She shrugged and returned to her little car, going to open the trunk. 

“So,” Garth said, tucking his thumbs into his belt, “a ghost, huh?” 

It was Charlie that answered him. “Yep, easy-peasy.” 

Dean snorted. “Charlie, if there’s one thing you’ve gotta learn, it’s that you shouldn’t ever go into a hunt thinkin’ it’ll be easy.” 

“Dean’s right,” Garth agreed, nodding with such sincere concern that Dean almost had to stifle a laugh. He was only just remembering why he liked the guy so much. “Even if it turns out to be easy-peasy, at least you’ll be nicely surprised.” 

Charlie muttered something in reply, but Dean didn’t hear what it was. Instead, she pulled a rucksack out of the trunk, from which she produced a small stack of paper. They turned out to be maps of each floor of the house, from the cellar to the attic. 

“I looked up the history of the house,” she said, “and apparently the family that used to live here buried their dead in a tomb deep in the cellar. Odds are, our guy’s down there. If not, there are a few graves on the grounds too, apparently.” She bit her lip before adding, “There might be more than one ghost.” 

“Then what do you propose we do for the bodies we can't find?” Castiel questioned. 

Charlie gave a little sheepish shrug. “We’ll have to do our research and look for any items they might be tethered to?” 

“That’s a pretty wide scope,” pointed out Sam. 

“And knowing our luck, there won’t actually be many that are buried down there,” Dean sighed. “Ninety percent of ‘em will probably be cremated or something.” 

“We’ll face that bridge if we come to it,” Castiel said simply. “The bodies could very well be in the tomb. We won’t know until we look.” 

“There’s a story behind it all, too,” Charlie continued. She flicked through a few pages of her notes, settling on one towards the end. “So the last family that lived there was around fifty or so years ago. Something happened to the mother and one of the kids of the family, and the father went mad over their deaths and killed every last person in the house, including himself.” 

She looked over the paper at them, eyebrows raised. “I figured it was better to have backup with something like this. None of it makes it clear how many ghosts are gonna be around, and the EMF wasn’t too helpful. It’d be easier for them to get the jump on a smaller group if there are a bunch of them.” 

“Smart move,” Sam complimented. “We’d better start getting ready if we’re gonna finish this by nightfall; we’ve only got a few hours before we should come out and regroup.” 

With that, the five of them dispersed to their respective vehicles. Dean checked his shotgun, mostly relying on muscle memory to get the job done, when he heard Charlie call, “Hey, Dean, could you come over here for a sec?” He set it down on the Impala’s roof, leaving it with Castiel and Sam as he went to join her. 

“What’s up?” he asked, leaning against the driver’s side door. 

She didn’t look like she needed any help. In fact, Dean had to admit that her weapons looked to be in pretty good condition, despite being new and the battering they must have already taken. She had a small range of firearms and a couple of knives from what he could see; she was only preparing for the former. 

The grin on her lips spelled trouble. 

Charlie leaned in, gaze darting back over to the Impala before settling on Dean’s. “So _that’s_ Cas?” she whispered. 

She even wiggled her eyebrows. 

Dean stifled a groan of complaint. Of course she’d start harassing him at one of the most inopportune moments. The only way the situation could be worse was if she’d brought it up while they were actually in the middle of the hunt. 

Folding his arms, Dean shrugged and replied, “Yeah, so?” 

Charlie smirked, turning back to loading her pistol. “Nothing. Just I seriously didn’t think you guys would be so obvious.” 

Panic coiled in Dean’s stomach for a moment, tight and sickening, until he forced himself to relax. It wasn’t the first time someone had made a point like that, nor did he think it would be the last. It didn’t necessarily mean anything that he wasn’t quite ready to confront. 

“Nothing’s happening between us,” he hissed. “Seriously. Just ‘cause I said about it last time doesn’t mean it’s actually… y’know.” When he heard a snicker, he added, “Shut up, you child, jeez!” 

Charlie waved her hands – which worried Dean, because she was still holding the pistol in her right – and even patted him on the elbow. He tried not to feel patronised by the gesture. “Sorry. You’re just being really stupid here, and-” 

“And it’s my business.” An exhausted sigh pushed past his lips. “I’ve had enough of Sam trying to play matchmaker. I appreciate it, really, just… let me work through it myself, okay?” 

Her smile turned gentler, more understanding, and she squeezed his arm before letting her hand drop again. “Sure, Dean. We’re only being annoying because we want you to be happy, you know that, right?” 

“I _am_ happy. I’m happy with how things are right now, in fact.” 

“Whatever you say.” Charlie shrugged. “Don’t let a good thing get away from you, though. That’s all I’m saying.” 

It was the second time he’d heard that, the first being from Sam and the second from Charlie. Dean ignored the pattern that he could see forming in favour of going to collect his shotgun so they could get on with more important things. 

* * *

The first thing they did was check out the cellar. It was easy to find it thanks to Charlie’s maps; the entrance was in a subtle door in the kitchen, one that looked like a cupboard instead of a doorway into a tomb. 

The smell of damp assaulted Dean’s nostrils as soon as he set foot on the floor. He wrinkled his nose despite the fact that it was a scent that he was familiar with. He was pretty sure that he could hear a trickle of water somewhere, dripping into a pool in a corner of the dark room. 

Dean switched on his torch, shining the beam around to get a good look at their surroundings. Wine racks stood in rows in front of him, stretching into the gloom where the torches couldn’t reach. Dusty bottles, untouched for decades, lay in the diamond-shaped alcoves. 

“There should be another door down at the end,” Charlie said. Her voice was too loud in the hush of the room; it trailed off into little more than a murmur as she finished speaking. 

Even the light tap of their footsteps and the sloshing of the gasoline Sam and Castiel were carrying made Dean glance around cautiously, half expecting the culprit to spring out on them already, but all they got was a light layer of dust on their clothes and aching fingers from gripping their guns. The way into the tomb was only an archway with a couple of steps leading down a little more; Dean led the way, torch beam going first with the muzzle of his gun a close second. 

Rows of stone boxes on slightly raised platforms spread out a few feet in front of the steps. From the torchlight alone, Dean could see the shadows across the lids that the writing threw. The room curved back around on itself from the right, wrapping around underneath the house and moving out of sight. 

Luckily, it seemed that there weren’t too many names to check out. Only a few generations had been buried there, so it was easy to find the most recent ones and, from that, find out the corresponding dates of the wife and child that had been murdered. 

The husband and other two children, however, were missing. 

“Crap,” Charlie summed up. 

“It’s no problem,” Sam said, already turning away to fling his own torch’s light through the rest of the tomb. “They’re probably buried somewhere else.” 

Dean put his shotgun by his feet and shrugged as he moved towards the wife’s coffin. “Doubt they’ll be down here, though. If they were, they’d be by these guys. I’ll put my money on them being outside or in an actual cemetery.” 

He stuck the end of his torch between his teeth, keeping the bulb pointed out, and started shifting the stone lid. Wordlessly, Castiel joined him, lending his strength. Stone groaned on stone as it shifted, protesting the movement after years of being left alone. Finally, it tipped, and the end thudded on the floor. 

Dean straightened, dusting off his hands, and tuned back into the conversation in time to hear Sam say, “Me, Garth, and Cas will look for the others, while you and Dean make sure everything’s good here.” 

Charlie bumped shoulders with Dean, grinning. “Looks like it’s you and me again!” 

The torch dropped back into Dean’s palm as he firmly replied, “No tricking me into girly conversations this time.” She only smiled innocently. 

Dean didn’t trust her one bit. 

“Call us if you find anything,” Sam said as his brother started preparing to set the first set of bones alight. “It’ll save us walking around the grounds all afternoon.” 

“Same goes for you,” Dean agreed. He unscrewed the cap of the gasoline and held the bottom as he tipped it to pour. As it splashed over the bones, Charlie picked up a tub of salt and started scattering it over the soaked body. “We’ll catch up when we’re done here and we’ve had another look around.” 

“Alright. See you in a little while.” 

“Catch you in a few,” Garth added. 

“Stay safe,” Castiel finished. 

Dean nodded in acknowledgement before waving them away as he put down the tank. “We’ll be fine. Go on, or you’ll end up hanging around with us until we’re done.” 

At his prompting, the three of them left. Charlie pulled a book of matches from her hoodie’s pocket, lit a couple, and tossed them in to set the bones aflame. 

“You always use too many in the _Supernatural_ books,” she commented, putting them away again as they turned to the child’s coffin. “The whole box? Really, Dean?” 

“Doesn’t hurt to be sure,” he defended. The lid made the same uncomfortable grating sound as they pushed it off. Dean tensed when it hit the ground, waiting to be assaulted, but there was still nothing. Maybe it was already going after their friends? 

“There’s being sure and then there’s being wasteful,” she chided. 

Childishly, Dean flipped her off. Charlie feigned a pained expression and placed a hand over her heart, but she quickly ruined the effect by stifling a laugh. It ended up growing, and the two soon dissolved into a bout of giggles. 

The laughter was short-lived. Before it had even really built, the sharp slam of the door from the wine cellar cut them off. The trickle of gasoline onto the second set of bones slowed to nothing as Dean lifted the container away, already reaching for his shotgun. Charlie threw a last handful of salt on top and another two matches to get the fire going. 

Dean slipped into a hunter’s crouch as he edged back through to the wine cellar, shotgun raised to lead him. He could hear Charlie following him – he spared a moment to be impressed that she was already improving; unlike last time, she wasn’t freezing up. 

Nothing stopped them from reaching the door, which was, as Dean had suspected, closed. “Cover me,” he said as he approached it, lowering his shotgun so he could yank on the metal ring that was the handle. 

It didn’t budge, no matter how hard he pulled. 

Grimacing, Dean looked over his shoulder at Charlie. She wore a similar expression, and she stated what the shut door meant: “We’re trapped.” 

* * *

The house was still and silent as Sam walked through it with Garth and Castiel; the only disturbance was the occasional gust of wind or their own murmured words. Their first stop had been the office in the hope that they could find some record of where the three remaining bodies were buried, but they’d come out empty-handed and with wasted time. Their next mission was to look outside, as Dean had suggested. 

The quiet was suddenly split with the opening bars of a song and a shout of _‘Ghostbusters!’_ Sam flinched, swinging to face the source of the noise: Garth. 

The other hunter pulled his phone from his pocket. He didn’t even have the decency to look ashamed of scaring the crap out of Sam – he doubted it had fazed Castiel, and judging by the expression, he was only concerned for their blown cover. 

“What the hell?” he hissed. 

“Dean’s callin’,” Garth replied, “take it up with him.” He clicked a button, pressed a second to put it on speakerphone, and said, “Y’ello?” 

_“Looks like the old man didn’t like us burnin’ the bones,”_ Dean said, sighing. _“We’re trapped down here. Door shut on us and it won’t open.”_

“Are you alright?” Castiel asked, gaze fixing on Garth’s phone. Sam, on the other hand, had turned his back, letting his attention roam around them warily while the other two were distracted. 

_“We’re fine,”_ Dean assured him. _“Nothing’s trying to kill us yet, at least. Anything on your end?”_

“Nada,” Garth said. “We tried lookin’ around for some info, but came up with nothin’. We’re gonna go out and take a look.” 

_“Don’t take too long. It’s freezing down here when there’s no fire. We’ll take another look and see if we can find ‘em down here._

_“And could you maybe keep the line open? ‘S probably better to stay in contact now. We should really invest in some walkie-talkies or somethin’.”_

“Sure thing.” Garth fiddled with the phone, managing to hook it onto his belt so his hands were free to wrap around his gun again. “We’ll keep you posted.” 

_“No slacking off,”_ Charlie added, _“we’ll be able to hear you.”_

“We would never.” Garth smirked, his smile crooked, and strolled towards the front door. “C’mon, slackers, we’ve got work to do.” 

“He’s lying,” Castiel said flatly. “If anything, he’s the one slacking off.” 

Tinny laughter came through the phone’s small speakers. _“I believe you, Cas,”_ Dean chuckled. 

Sam was surprised to find that evening was already setting in, casting a warm orange glow across the mansion’s lawn as they moved outside. The front was very obviously clear of suspicious mounds of dirt, so they turned left and started to work their way around the building’s side. 

There _were_ flowerbeds, however, ones that they briefly mistook as graves, but soon realised their true purpose when they went closer and saw that they were too small to hold even one of the children. The place must have been beautiful when it was in its prime, Sam thought. It was a shame that it was abandoned. 

Although, perhaps not, given its grisly past and the parts of it that remained. Maybe now, after they dealt with the restless spirit, someone else could move in and bring it back to its former glory. 

The graves were, surprisingly, actually out by the backdoor. Sam had been expecting that they’d have to go on a wild goose chase around the graveyards nearby to find the three, but he was wrong. The largest grave of the three, the father’s, was in the middle, and his two children were either side of him. The gravestones marked the places with their names and dates of death; any flowers that had been there had long since wilted away, replaced by weeds that grew over the bodies and the moss on the gravestones. 

It was a saddening image to see. Even if they were still lingering here, they deserved to rest with their family, or maybe in a cemetery where the graves could be tended to instead of left to fade away without mention or memory. 

_“Hey, I wonder if we could take some of this stuff?”_ Dean wondered aloud, shattering Sam’s thoughts. He inferred that Dean was talking about the wine from the clinking sounds. _“It’s probably some really expensive stuff, too.”_

“We’re not taking the fancy wine,” Sam told him firmly. He set his gun down, reaching over his shoulder to remove the shovel from his back so he could get to work on one of the graves. Garth did the same with the only other shovel while Castiel kept watch. 

_“Aw, c’mon. One bottle?”_

“Nope.” 

_“You’re no fun, bitch.”_

“Jerk.” 

Of course Charlie would chip in. Sam rolled his eyes as she added, _“We could be stuck down here for a while, you know. We’ll need liquids.”_

“Alcohol wouldn’t hydrate you,” Castiel informed them, raising his voice so he could be heard from his post a few feet away. 

_“Whose side are you on?”_ Charlie demanded. 

“Neither. I’m… refereeing.” 

That startled another laugh out of the four of them, and Sam saw Castiel smile out of the corners of his eyes. A matching grin pulled on his own lips as he stuck the end of the shovel into the soil, yanking it up and dumping it to the side. 

_“I told you he’s a real joker,”_ Dean said, evidently talking to Charlie now rather than the entire group. _“It just takes a little while for- Look out!”_

There was a clack as the phone fell, a crash as something on the other end shattered, a muffle curse, and then the unmistakable crack of a shotgun. 

Sam sped up his digging, piling more dirt onto the little mound beside him. The father’s bones first, he decided, and then the children’s; the father was the one who’d killed them, after all, so he was the more dangerous if he was the ghost. 

“What happened?” Garth asked urgently. 

The reply was a little delayed, but then Dean picked up his phone and growled, _“Fuckin’ ghost came outta nowhere. He almost got the jump on Charlie. You guys need to hurry up, it looks like he’s done waiting.”_

_“Dean, behind you-!”_

His brother must have thrown the phone again, because the sounds of the scuffle that ensued were muffled by the clatter of plastic and distance. Sam could still hear gunshots and footsteps amidst the sound of hissing as the ghost’s voice didn’t translate over the line. 

Metal thudded on the coffin’s lid, and in a motion that was simultaneous, Garth and Sam hopped in and worked on opposite ends of the grave, hurrying to clear it. 

_“Fuck!”_ Dean’s voice came loud and clear, shouted as something – Sam hated the not knowing, hated it with a passion – happened. _“Put her down, you assho-”_

When Dean choked off into silence, Castiel had had enough. “I’m going to help,” he announced, and promptly set off at a run. “Hurry!” he threw back over his shoulder. 

“You, too!” Sam yelled after him. 

* * *

Castiel skidded to a stop in front of the cellar door, his heart pounding and his breath coming in pants from the run. He couldn’t hear any firing, only the scrapes of wordless struggling and the clinking of bottles as they trembled in their spaces. 

He gritted his teeth, took a step back, and then kicked the door. 

It merely rattled against his foot. He thinned his lips and tried again with the same result. It took a third time before the old, rusty hinges and rotting wood gave in with a screech and a groan, splintering enough to let him knock down the remainder of it. 

The cellar was a mess. Shelves had toppled over, scattering glass and spilling wine across the stone floor; red had settled in the grooves like blood, and Castiel had to forcefully make himself think that it was only alcohol and not the precious liquid from Charlie’s or Dean’s veins. 

The ghost was standing in the centre of the carnage, arms outstretched towards the two humans he’d pinned to the walls with their hands to their throats – was he strangling them? – with the sheer force of his anger. Little shards of glass were lifting into the air, glinting in the light from the dropped torches and the kitchen. 

Without hesitation, Castiel fired a salt-filled bullet through the body of the ghost. He dissolved, allowing Charlie and Dean to fall back to their feet with simultaneous gasps for breath. The bits of glass rained down onto the stone, tinkling softly. 

Dean snatched up his shotgun, pressing his back to the wall so it couldn’t sneak up on him again. Castiel strode forwards, intending to check on them, but Charlie shouted wordlessly and fired behind him; he whirled around, skipping back a step to fall into line between his friends. 

Once again, the father was sent away by a shot, but it was plain that they couldn’t keep this up for long. They could only hope that their ammo lasted and that the other half of their team burned the bones soon, preferably before the ghost tried to kill them by means that weren’t through manifestation. 

They didn’t have long to wait. 

Castiel suddenly found that he couldn’t breathe; it felt like a cold hand had closed around his airways, squeezing them tight until they closed off. His gun fell to the floor with a clatter as he choked, hands flying up to his throat to scrabble at invisible fingers. 

His knees hit the ground next, touching a puddle of wine. His jeans stained red from it, and again he was reminded of the resemblance to blood. Castiel’s lungs screamed for oxygen, burned from the lack of it. He’d never felt this before, had never known how it felt to actually need to breathe, and now he realised just how essential it was. 

Castiel could just about see Dean in front of him through his blurry vision. There was the red of Charlie’s hair on the edge, too. One of his hands found itself twisting weakly into the front of Dean’s shirt, holding on. He thought the hold was returned; it certainly felt like there was a warm hand on his shoulder. 

Just as quickly as it had happened, air rushed back into his chest again. He gasped at the foul-smelling, stagnant air of the cellar like it was the freshest he’d ever tasted, sucking it down in huge gulps. Falling forwards, he pressed his cheek to Dean’s shoulder, turning his head to the side so he could continue breathing. Dean’s arms wound around him, clutching him to his chest. 

_“Dean? Charlie? Cas?”_

Sam’s voice, worried, from the phone. Charlie retrieved it and crouched beside them, holding it in her palm. “We’re okay,” she said. Castiel lifted his head, finally closing his mouth and inhaling through his nose as Charlie met his gaze. “Right?” she checked. 

He nodded, enjoying the freedom of exhaling. “Yes. We’re fine,” he rasped. 

Dean relaxed, and they both slowly released each other. His friend gave a relieved smile, nodding slightly. “Yeah, we’re good. Your timing could’ve been a little better.” 

_“No casualties,”_ Garth retorted. _“That’s a win.”_

“I would have preferred to remain ignorant of the sensation of suffering.” Castiel narrowed his eyes at the phone, his throat clicking dryly when he swallowed. It hurt like he’d been shouting for hours. 

_“You okay, Cas?”_ Sam asked. 

Castiel’s gaze drifted up to Dean’s, settling there and finding comforting familiarity in the way his eyes were already waiting to meet his own. A smile twitched up one corner of Dean’s mouth as he said, “Yeah, he’s okay.” 

* * *

“That was a moment, and you know it!” Charlie hissed. 

Dean covered one side of his face with a hand, sighing heavily as he tried again. “Charlie, what did I say earlier today?” 

She pouted and folded her arms. “Don’t talk about it, don’t ask about it, yadda, yadda. Dean, that was totally a thing that happened there!” 

He winced, shaking his head quickly. “Please stop.” 

“ _Fine._ Asshole. If you two aren’t banging by the time we see each other next, I’m throwing in the towel and I’m gonna have to team up with Sam,” she threatened. 

Dean offered her a hug as a peace offering, and, of course, Charlie graciously accepted before moving on to give Sam, Garth, and Castiel the same treatment. 

It took a moment for Castiel to get into it, but after a moment’s hesitation his arms came up to return Charlie’s hug. Dean watched with a mixture of amusement and wariness when she blatantly whispered something to Castiel, making his eyebrows lift. She grinned, patted his shoulder, and said her last goodbyes, her typical ‘Later, bitches!’ called out of the window as her car trundled away. 

Garth passed out hugs as well, even offering one to Castiel, which was one of the funniest things Dean could remember seeing in a while; Garth was as enthusiastic as he was with Sam or Dean, while Castiel awkwardly patted him on the back. As he headed over to his car, his phone rang again; he was still chattering away about vampires to another hunter as he left. 

Sam snorted. “Did you know that his ringtone for you is _Ghostbusters_?” 

Dean huffed a laugh. “What a dork.” 

“I like them both,” Castiel commented idly, tilting his head slightly as the last of the dust from Garth’s departure settled. “I’m honoured to be able to call them friends – as honoured as I am to be part of your family.” 

It hadn’t really hit Dean until then that that was what Castiel was now. He was a part of their little bunker family and, more importantly, an honorary Winchester. Whatever Dean felt for him and whatever Castiel felt in return wouldn’t influence that. Castiel slotted in neatly with them, as he had always done. He was like the last puzzle piece. 

Dean needed to recover from the chick-flick moment fast. 

“You’ve always been family, Cas,” he said fondly, knocking shoulders with him before he pushed off from the Impala’s side to head for the wheel. “C’mon, guys, let’s head home. Is burgers for dinner good with everyone?”


	9. Long Forgotten Fairytale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs for this chapter:
> 
> Long Forgotten Fairytale - The Magnetic Fields  
> Shampain - Marina and the Diamonds

Dean was really starting to get tired of waking up in a different bed. This was the second time in the past few weeks, and it was really, really starting to get old. There wasn’t even a walk of shame to complete.

Admittedly, the room was nice. It was circular, connected only to a little bubble of a bathroom that held a bucket of cold water with a rag floating in it and a chamber pot. The bedroom had only one window and one door, both of which were blocked by some invisible force; no amount of tugging on the doorknob would open the latter, unfortunately. 

The bed he’d woken on was nicer than his own in the bunker, despite the fact that it didn’t have a memory foam mattress. It was all silk and down-filled pillows with curtains that draped around it to keep him hidden from view while he slept. The floor and walls were made from some grey stone – cold to the touch and immovable. A bookcase that was curved to the shape of the wall was the only other item of furniture, and the books on it were all he had for entertainment if he wanted it. 

And then there was the clothing. 

Dean growled and looked down at himself again, nose wrinkling in distaste. A white shirt and matching trousers, complete with bare feet. Dean _hated_ having his feet bare, and had done ever since he was a child. He was pretty sure it was to do with the fact that it meant he was unprepared to run on any kind of terrain. Besides, a pair of good, sturdy boots could make a whole world of difference when it came to kicking the shit out of something grabbing his leg. 

A circlet of gold had been on his brow when he woke. Now it was on the floor by the bookcase, thrown there in a fit of anger, glinting in the rays of sunlight that hit it. 

Dean made another circle of the room, wishing he had some shoes to properly stomp with. His feet just slapped the stones in an unsatisfying way. 

He’d been awake a total of thirty minutes, he thought, and he already needed to get out. It was too small, too closed in – it was almost like the constricting pressure of waking up inside a coffin, funnily enough – and, most importantly, he didn’t know where Sam, Castiel, or Kevin were. 

Dean slammed his fist on the heavy wooden door, snarling, “Fucking hell!” As his fingers smoothed out of the violent gesture, he wondered if he could try kicking his way out. 

Boots. 

_Damn it,_ he needed his boots! 

A rustling sound that was worryingly like feathers alerted him to the presence of someone else. Hadn’t the angels’ wings burned when they fell, meaning they couldn’t fly now? Or had he assumed wrongly? Then again, it would take a pretty neat trick to get him out of the bunker and into these clothes while keeping him asleep. 

A trick… 

Dean turned. 

“Hey, Deano.” 

* * *

The first thing Castiel noticed was that he was uncomfortably hot. The warmth of the sun on his face had his eyes flying open, darting here and there as he took in his surroundings. There were grey stripes barring his vision – a helmet’s visor – and through it Castiel could see a forest and a caramel coloured horse. He lifted gloved hands to remove the helmet and, after a pause, he threw it away. 

It landed with a clang at the base of a tree, startling a whinny out of the horse. It trotted away a few steps, ears flattened and tail lashing. 

Castiel felt how the horse looked: annoyed. 

A quick inspection confirmed what Castiel had feared. He was wearing armour, the full shining, grey, metal-plated suit; it was boiling underneath the layers, making him feel much like a cooking vegetable. At least he could breathe easier without the helmet. 

He didn’t recognise the forest either, which just made the situation so much worse. All of the colours were too bright; the leaves on the plants were too green, the sky an almost violent shade of blue. 

That, coupled with his current attire and situation, led Castiel to believe that this was the work of some creature. Maybe a djinn? But no, this wouldn’t be Castiel’s truest desire. 

Before he could think much further, the whistle of the horse’s breathing interrupted his thoughts. It was approaching again, and Castiel had to admire the lack of wariness in its step, especially considering he’d just frightened it. He pulled off a glove and offered it his hand, waiting patiently. 

The horse rolled its eyes and sighed. It struggled for a moment with the bit in its mouth – apparently, it was his horse in whatever world he was in; there weren’t any other signs of life to let him know that it had another rider – until it pushed it out with its tongue. 

“That’s disgusting,” it said in Sam’s voice. 

Castiel’s eyebrows rose, his hand falling back to his side. “Sam?” 

The horse pulled his lips back, baring his teeth in an irritated snarl. “Unfortunately.” 

Any other person would have laughed at Sam’s predicament, Dean included – especially, in fact; he had no doubt that he would’ve found it hilarious, and would have come up with many jokes. Luckily for Sam, Castiel wasn’t going to do that. (Even if it _was_ a little funny.) 

Still too hot, Castiel pulled off the other glove and dropped both at his feet, even considering trying to find out how to pull the rest of the armour off. He was fairly certain that he had some kind of clothing on underneath. He was sure he could feel something over his lower half. 

“At least this is better than being the Impala,” Sam muttered. He managed to grimace despite his horsey face as he rolled his shoulders. “All this tack is killing my back, though.” He nosed Castiel’s shoulder, adding, “You don’t think this is permanent, do you? I’d rather not eat grass for the rest of my life.” And then, after another pause, “Where’s Dean?” 

“I don’t know,” Castiel confessed. “I don’t know where we are either.” 

“I don’t either,” announced a new voice. 

If Castiel wasn’t mistaken, then that was- 

“Oh, my God, _Kevin_ ,” Sam gasped. 

Castiel had thought that Sam being a horse was the limit of the strangeness. He was wrong. Apparently, their captor had thought it would be funny to make Kevin a _fairy_. 

Unlike the real ones, Kevin was clothed, thankfully. He looked like he was in his normal attire, only smaller. He also had tiny, almost invisible wings; they fluttered like a hummingbird’s as he careened into one of Sam’s ears, which were almost as tall as him. Kevin hissed something that Castiel thought was probably a curse as he hauled himself up onto his feet unsteadily. 

“If you move, I’ll zap your ass,” Kevin said matter-of-factly to Sam. 

Sam snorted. “Can you even do that?” 

“You wanna find out?” 

The playful bickering continued, but Castiel wasn’t paying attention anymore. The beginnings of a headache had formed, pressing painfully between his eyes and slowly building. And as if that wasn’t enough, the high note that had split his skull when they had switched bodies was returning, increasing in volume by increments. 

His back found a tree to lean against. It was uncomfortable with the armour digging into his spine, but he put up with it so he could drop his head into his hands, fingertips to his temples, as if he could massage the pain out of his brain. It felt like it was worming its way in, taking root like a weed in a garden, carving out a place to stay. 

And, suddenly, it was gone. 

Without it, Castiel’s head felt much lighter. He gasped, shoulders slumping and trembling as the tension was released. Amongst the relief was an unnervingly clear image: a bird’s eye view of the forest with a path in red towards a tower. Over the top was one word, strong and insistent: _Dean_. 

There was definitely something more powerful at work. And, if Castiel’s suspicions were anything to go by… 

If this was the same thing that had wrenched them back into their bodies, was Castiel correct? Was it an angel as he’d thought? He sincerely hoped not, because if so, it meant that they’d found him again. 

“Cas?” Sam asked. His voice was raised, almost neighing as he spoke. There was the scrape of a hoof in dirt and Kevin’s mutter of warning; Sam must have moved in his agitation. 

“I’m fine,” he replied stiffly, his eyes still firmly closed. He hoped that he’d still be able to picture the map when he opened them. “I believe our mystery captor tried to contact me. I think I’ve been given directions to Dean.” 

He raised his head, squinting at the too bright sun. Now that he looked, he saw that the clouds were overly-fluffy as well. 

Sam flicked his tail and shuffled his feet, anxious. “You think we can trust them?” 

“What else have we got?” Kevin pointed out. “It’s not like we’ve got anywhere else we can go. It’s a start.” 

“I guess.” Shaking his head – much to the frustration of Kevin, who flitted back into the air again – Sam gave in with a soft huff. “How far d’you think it is, Cas?” 

Castiel passed a hand over his face, grimacing. “I’m not sure. It doesn’t seem to be too long to walk.” He suddenly felt exhausted, even though he’d been asleep not long before. He wished he was back in the bunker. 

Soft clopping alerted Castiel to Sam’s movement, and then there was a saddle in front of his face. Sam twisted his neck to look back, a sort of resigned but kind look on his face. “Might as well put all this crap to use, right?” 

But Castiel shook his head and, after a moment’s pause, awkwardly patted Sam’s shoulder. “Thank you, but no. I can’t ask you to carry me. I’m fine.” 

“Your loss!” Kevin declared, reseating himself on top of Sam’s head. He twisted his tiny hands into his mane, holding the brown hair tight. “My gain. There’s no way in hell I’m actually gonna use these stupid wings.” 

Castiel stepped in front, leading the way while the other two continued to banter behind him. He ignored them in favour of keeping the map clear in his mind. 

* * *

_“You son of a bitch!”_ Dean snarled. His hands were fists at his sides; they ached to throw a punch at the smug, familiar face of Gabriel, but instead his nails just bit into his palms as he struggled to stop himself from doing so. It was hardly a good greeting. Then again, he’d sworn at him already. Gabriel just smirked back, quirking an eyebrow as if to say ‘what’s your point?’ 

However, the fact remained that he was supposed to be dead. Lucifer had killed him, as far as Dean knew. He’d never witnessed the fight, but the _Casa Erotica_ DVD they’d been given had bid them a not-so-fond farewell with a titbit of information about the Horsemen. So while he hadn’t seen Gabriel’s scorched wings for himself, it had been pretty obvious that he was dead. 

Throughout Dean’s bubbling anger, Gabriel stood there silently, a tiny smile on his lips. He wore long white robes, the ends of which stopped just short of his ankles, revealing sandals. Grudgingly, Dean admitted that his own attire was a little like Gabriel’s, even down to the circlet of gold on the archangel’s brow, only his was shaped like leaves. 

Dean jutted his chin, flicking his gaze towards him. “Why the hell are you dressed like that?” 

“So we match.” Gabriel rolled his eyes, his smile widening a little more. “I’ve been hanging out with the Greeks for a while. There was a vacancy in the slot of Dionysus. ‘ _God of Wine, Merrymaking, Theatre, and Ecstasy_ ’,” he recited. “Fits me, don’t you think? And then there’s the plus of Ariadne.” 

Dean squinted. “Ariadne?” 

Gabriel whistled, his smile finally settling into the grin he used to wear. “She liked mazes and labyrinths, things like that. Ever heard of Theseus and the Minotaur? Man, she’s my kinda girl.” 

His interest was piqued, but this was no time to check out Greek goddesses – if there ever was a time. They could be deadly and were most certainly dangerous, and he had firsthand experience with that, not to mention he probably wasn’t in any good books with them. 

Not that he really cared. That thought surprised him. 

Dean forced himself back on track, pulling on the anger from earlier to centre himself. Gabriel seemed to realise that Dean wasn’t going to be swayed, as he sighed, rolled his eyes, and strolled over to the bookcase to lean against it. 

“Why am I here? And where are the others?” Dean demanded. 

“They’re… around.” Gabriel pursed his lips, gestured vaguely around them. “I pointed them here. They should turn up sometime soon.” 

The archangel gave an odd twist of his wrist, creating a golden goblet in his hand. It filled with red wine as Dean watched. Sometimes, Dean really wished he had angel powers just so he could do that. He’d never need to worry about filling the refrigerator ever again; he could just mojo it all. 

That kiddo of yours is with Sam and Cas,” Gabriel said in an offhand voice, lifting the goblet to take a dainty sip. “Kevin’s his name, right?” 

Dean was in half a mind to force the information out of Gabriel – taking Sam and Castiel was one thing, but Kevin was a _kid_ (he really wasn’t, a small voice in his voice reminded him. Kevin was actually in his early twenties). Gabriel held up a finger, wagging it back and forth with an ‘ah-ah-ah’. 

He downed the entire goblet in one gulp and tossed it onto Dean’s bed. A few stray drops of wine spilled out, staining the sheets red. “You’re waiting here, princess.” 

As Dean stumbled around the word ‘princess’ and its implications in his situation, Gabriel vanished, leaving Dean with more questions than he’d had before. 

* * *

Castiel was starting to think that the mental map he had was much larger than he’d originally thought. He had the feeling that they’d been walking for an hour or two now, but he couldn’t be sure; the sun seemed to stay fixed in the sky, still bright and hot. 

Kevin sighed, sitting up slightly from where he’d been reclining against one of Sam’s ears. “Does this place ever end? I’ve got more important things to do than wander around a frigging forest.” 

“Perhaps you should try to use your powers,” Castiel suggested, a hint of exhaustion lacing his tone. Sam snorted, the sound very horse-like, although Castiel didn’t think he’d been that funny. He certainly hadn’t intended it to be amusing. 

The soft flutter of feathers caught his attention. Castiel looked up into the trees overhead, expecting to see some kind of spectacular bird to go with this strange world. He _didn’t_ expect to see Gabriel lounging on a branch, tossing a couple of apples in his hands. 

He grinned a huge smile, baring the tips of his teeth as he did so. “Hey, bro!” Gabriel chirped. Without warning, he lobbed an apple towards them. It turned into a sparrow at the last second, twittering as it flapped its little wings to keep from barrelling into Sam’s neck. The horse actually reared with a mixture of a yell and a whinny, causing Kevin to topple off of his head. He gave an indignant shout as he caught himself. 

Gabriel rolled his eyes, sighed dramatically, and took a bite out of his remaining apple. “Chill, jeez.” 

“You’re supposed to be dead!” Sam spat. His tail lashed as his lips curled back in a horsey display of anger. 

“So I’m not. Sue me. Or better yet, _screw me_ , Samsquatch. Preferably when you’re not a horse. Let’s not recreate that one Loki myth.” 

“Gabriel…” Castiel gnawed his lip, sorrow rising in his chest now that the news was setting in. Gabriel was _alive_. What was more, the affection – however twisted – that he’d had for the Winchesters seemed to have remained. Underneath the pain Castiel felt was anger. 

His brother raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue. The burn of that anger boiled in Castiel’s blood, making him want to do something with it. Dean would have sliced into the trunk of the tree with the sword at his hip; Sam would stand his ground. 

Castiel growled, “I felt you die.” 

It had been agony, as it always was to lose a sibling. The connection of Gabriel’s Grace had snapped free from the Host with a harsh twang, leaving a hollow ache that slowly, slowly faded into nothing over the months. After a battle, it could hurt for years. 

Curious, Castiel tried to reach out for the other angel again. Miraculously, the ability to connect with another Grace wasn’t a one time thing; Gabriel welcomed the mental link warmly with soothing brushes of his own Grace, spreading the sensation of feathers across his… whatever Castiel had. Was it a soul or Grace? He didn’t know. Maybe it was a mixture of both. 

Either way, Castiel had accomplished his task: it was definitely Gabriel. He would recognise his Grace anywhere. 

“How are you here?” Castiel asked softly. 

While Gabriel’s smirk didn’t slip on the outside, Castiel felt a pulse of regret from his Grace before the connection narrowed to almost nothing. “Remember when I was Loki? The same, only now I’m Dionysus with the Greeks.” 

He raised his hand, cutting off the question Castiel had been forming. “Never mind about that. If you wanna rescue your princess, carry on straight ahead. You’ll find him in, ooh, a few minutes, tops. As long as you guys stop being slowpokes, that is.” Gabriel wriggled his fingers and, as suddenly as he’d appeared, he was gone, the Grace-link with him. 

“Who the hell was that?” Kevin demanded. He’d flown back up onto Sam’s head again and, like before, he was holding onto the tufts of his mane that settled on his forehead. 

“My brother, Gabriel,” Castiel explained. He watched the spot where he’d been for a moment longer, and then averted his gaze, returning it to the faint path through the trees. “Come on. Dean’s waiting.” 

From there, it was a rush to find the edge of the forest. As promised, it wasn’t long before they burst out into the bright sunlight. It was already too warm through Castiel’s armour, far worse than it had been under the shade. 

There was a very obvious tower in front of them, rising from the ground to simply stand there on its own; no castle was in sight. A wooden door was at the foot of it, a metal ring in the centre of it for its handle. Above it, at the top, was a narrow window. Something passed by it. 

Castiel cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Dean?” 

A crash echoed down to them. Had he knocked something over? His face appeared in the window, hands curling over the sill as he leaned forwards to call “Cas?” back. He shielded his eyes from the sun with a hand and said something Castiel couldn’t hear before adding, “Took your time!” 

“My guide wasn’t as clear as he seemed to be,” Castiel explained. 

He didn’t have time to wonder if his brother had spoken to Dean, as he asked, “Gabriel?” 

Castiel nodded. “He spoke to us just before we arrived here.” 

“The asshole visited me a while back.” Castiel could imagine Dean’s frustrated sigh. “He’s popped up since then, y’know, all smug and shit. He wouldn’t tell me a damn thing.” 

Dean shifted, leaning against the side of the window instead. He glanced back inside, his expression unreadable from the ground. “How the hell am I gonna get out? The door won’t open.” He turned back, mouth open – and then stared for a few seconds before asking, “Are you wearing armour?” 

Kevin began to laugh behind him. Sam snorted. 

Castiel sighed. 

“Yes, I am. Sam, why don’t you try kicking the door down?” 

The horse in question made a disgruntled sound, ears flattening and tail flicking. “How about you get off your ass and do it yourself?” 

Dean began to roar with laughter. When Castiel looked up again, he was actually gone from the window, but he came back a few seconds later to gasp a couple of sentences. “Sam’s a _horse_? Oh, God, I want photos.” 

“Shut up! At least I’m not a fairy!” 

“ _You asshole!”_ ” Kevin snarled. 

“A fair- ohshitIcan’t _breathe_ -” 

Kevin’s wings hummed as he lifted off of Sam’s head, evidently furious with them all. “I’m going to murder you when we get back,” he hissed venomously. 

As everyone was distracted, Castiel took it upon himself to complete the task of rescuing Dean. He found that the door wasn’t even locked when he pulled on the ring. It swung open with a soft creak. It continued long after Castiel had started up the spiral staircase inside until it hit the outside wall with a thud. 

The door at the top was almost identical to the one at the bottom, and it opened just as easily. It went inwards to reveal Dean, who was leaning against the wall and still wheezing. He raised his head, eyes glimmering with unshed tears of laughter, only to collapse into giggles again upon seeing him and his armour. 

Castiel sighed heavily. “What’s so amusing?” 

“Just-” Dean gasped, wrapping his arms around his middle as he pressed his back to the wall. “You’re a _knight_ , Cas, that’s never not gonna be funny. It’s like you’re a knight… in shining… armour…” 

Dean trailed off as comprehension dawned. Castiel didn’t get what it was about the statement, but it seemed to make sense to Dean somehow, as all of the amusement drained from him as he murmured, “Son of a bitch.” 

He stood up properly, growling softly as he stalked across the room. Castiel let himself in, the door bumping the inside wall as he nudged it inwards. 

“I don’t need rescuing,” Dean muttered to himself, childishly kicking one of the bedposts. “Unless you count from that Grade-A asshole, fuckin’ hell.” Louder, he said, “Gabriel sucks.” 

“He has his worse moments,” Castiel agreed. “I expect that this is just his way of announcing his return – by playing tricks on us.” He sighed, eyebrows pulling into a frown. “I don’t understand how he _can_ do this… An illusion of this strength requires more Grace than the angels have right now.” 

Dean’s stare was serious and slightly blank, his emotions hidden when he turned back to Castiel. He took the few steps that were needed to reach his side. “Looks like we’ll have to do a little interrogating, huh?” 

Leaving no room for argument, Dean seized Castiel’s wrist and pulled him towards the stairs. “He’d better show us when we get outta here,” he snarled. Castiel expected that he would be stomping on the stone steps if he had something on his feet. “We deserve some damn good answers after all of this shit. How long d’you think we’ve wasted here?” 

The possible time implications had passed Castiel by in his shock at seeing one of his brothers again, but now that Dean brought it up it was a serious problem. What if days had gone by, like when Sam and Dean had been trapped in TV shows? What if Heaven was restored, Abaddon had shown her face, the world was _broken_? There was so many maybes and no way to tell without returning. 

The bottom door was shut again. When Dean reached out to push it open and dragged Castiel through, the dining room of the bunker opened out before them instead of the bright green grass of the fake universe. 

* * *

It was safe to say that Dean didn’t find the whole thing funny anymore. After he’d realised that Gabriel had intended for Castiel to be a ‘knight in shining armour’ to save the ‘princess locked in the tower’, it had turned unfunny so fast he thought he might have sprained something. 

The first thing he noticed was that he was back in his own clothes, but the first thing he checked was Sam. His brother was standing and looking down at his hands, appearing incredibly confused but relieved to no longer be a horse. Kevin was already leaving, muttering something that Dean didn’t catch. Castiel was also back in his own clothes; he sighed, shoulders sagging now that he didn’t have the extra weight to carry. 

Dean hadn’t even phrased the ‘what the fuck?’ circling his brain before Gabriel showed his face. The flowing robes and golden goblet were gone, replaced with his old jeans, wine red shirt, and tennis shoes combo. He grinned, clapped his hands together, and cheerfully said, “And they all lived happily ever after!” 

Castiel didn’t wait for him to finish speaking before he approached. He gave no concern for personal space – not that he had much in the past anyway – and seized Gabriel’s sleeves. His back was to Dean, but he thought that he sensed some longing from him. 

It reminded him of when Sam had come back from Hell. He’d wanted to believe it was him, but he was also much too aware of what he _could_ be. He’d needed his brother back, needed one of the two people that knew him like the back of their hand (at the time, he hadn’t had the other person, either). 

“How…?” Castiel trailed off. It was one of the few times that Dean had seen him struggle to prioritise his thoughts. It wasn’t something he enjoyed seeing. “How are you here, Gabriel?” 

In answer, the archangel just shook his head with a sly smile. “Nuh-uh, bro, that’s secret business right there.” 

Dean saw tension line Castiel’s shoulders, warning of his slowly increasing frustration. He’d rarely seen his friend actually angry. Was this going to be one of those times? 

“How were you able to make that illusion?” he asked, trying another angle. 

Gabriel pulled his arms loose – Castiel’s hands fell to his sides again – and reached into the neck of his shirt. He lifted out a string, a pendant dangling from the centre of it- no, actually it was a tiny bottle, one that glowed from the inside. 

Castiel inhaled sharply and took a step back at the sight of it. “I had this saved up for emergencies,” Gabriel explained. His expression was carefully blank as he watched Castiel, wary. “The other angels can’t do jack shit about me using it now. 

“It’s not flawless, though. My wings…” Even Gabriel stumbled here, his shoulders curling slightly inwards. “They’re there, but they’re like limbs that you know aren’t gonna make it.” 

Castiel moved back again, retreating to stand by Sam and Dean. Apparently, Gabriel wasn’t done yet, though. 

“I’ve been listening into the chatter,” he added, gesturing at his head, voice strengthening again. “They’re super pissed, bro.” 

“I’m well aware,” Castiel replied stiffly. He turned away, shoulders hunched. 

“Castiel, look at me.” 

Dean suddenly felt like he was intruding on an incredibly private moment. It was the kind between family when you only wanted family there – but, then again, he and Sam _were_ Castiel’s family. They hadn’t been told to leave, so he took it as a good sign. Dean wasn’t much of one for showing his support via touch during an argument, but now he raised a hand to give Castiel’s shoulder a little squeeze. 

Castiel must have glanced up, because Gabriel started talking again. Concern was written into every line of his face, any of his usual joking nature hidden from sight for now. “How are you, bro?” 

“I’m human,” Castiel replied simply. “I have no wings and no Grace. How do you imagine I am?” 

It occurred to Dean that maybe he’d overestimated how Castiel was. He’d assumed that he was okay since he’d seemed it, but of all people, Dean should have known better. He’d hidden how Hell had affected him, after all. 

Gabriel had struck a nerve. Castiel shouldered past Sam and Dean, only twisting to toss a handful of sentences over his shoulder. “You can join us or leave. Be careful of the other angels if you go; I imagine they’ll be watching anyone who comes into contact with us three.” 

With that, he left. 

After a pause when no one moved, Dean followed, muttering, “Damn it.” 

* * *

Gabriel raised his eyebrows at Sam as the two left, as if to ask ‘who made them bitchy?’ but Sam, however, decided that Castiel had a point. 

“He’s right,” he said firmly. “You know what it’s like. We can’t afford to just let you hang around. Either join us or go.” 

“Wow.” Gabriel gave a low whistle as he rolled his eyes. “Great welcoming committee you guys are. Hell, I should’a left you as a horse. Or maybe a donkey, then you’d really be an ass.” 

Sam just stared, eyebrows lifted, expectant. 

Gabriel sighed. “Fine. I’m gonna stay neutral for now. I’m not up for the whole fighting deal. Maybe I’ll go visit the Greeks again.” 

“I wouldn’t. They’re as bad as any other gods,” Sam snorted. He started moving around the room, idly tidying just so he had something to occupy his hands. Making small talk with an archangel that had saved him wasn’t exactly on his list of skills. 

He sure as hell wasn’t expecting Gabriel to say, “And how’re _you_ feeling, Sammy? As healthy as a horse?” 

Sam paused, a frown furrowing his brows. “Horse puns aside, yeah. Why? How to do you know-” 

“Hello,” Gabriel interrupted, his smirk widening until it was pulling on his cheeks. “ _Trickster._ ” 

Wings flapped, and then he was gone. The only sign that he’d ever been there was a single golden feather on the table, curling in on itself as it wilted. 

After a brief hesitation, Sam picked it up. 

He retrieved the letter signed by ‘T’ and held the two side by side. The puzzle pieces were beginning to slot into place in Sam’s mind, both putting him at ease and making him anxious. 

Could ‘T’ stand for ‘Trickster’?


	10. Kiss Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's now a tumblr specifically for my AO3! You can find it [here](http://adurnaskulblaka.tumblr.com).
> 
> Songs for this chapter:  
> Ready to Go - Panic! at the Disco  
> Kiss Me - New Found Glory

The bunker was quiet, but it wasn’t the kind that came about simply because there were so few people in the space. It was the kind that was heavy, the sort that had settled because of a disagreement – uneasy.

It was made worse for Dean with the knowledge that it was Castiel’s hurt that was causing it. 

The faint sound of voices had stopped moments ago, and he assumed that Gabriel had left. He didn’t particularly give a shit about the archangel; he’d unsettled the peace when he’d screwed with them, perhaps far more than he’d intended to. Unless he came to apologise – or, hell, even help them out a little – Dean was going to put him out of his mind. 

Unfortunately, Castiel disappeared so quickly during the chat with his long lost brother that Dean didn’t catch where he was headed. The bunker was a sprawling maze of a building, filled to the brim with nooks, crannies, and unexplored rooms where a person could hide if they wanted. He knew that Castiel liked the library and the file room in the basement, but that was about all he had to go on. He didn’t know where he might hide. 

Thankfully, before Dean chose one of his options and went to check it out, Kevin came past with his arms full of his usual bits and pieces. The Tablet rested at the bottom of a stack of papers, the runes poking out from underneath. Pencils rolled on top, only kept from falling by Kevin tilting the pile back towards his chest. 

“Have you seen Cas?” Dean asked. 

Kevin jerked his head back over his shoulder, gesturing towards the corridor of bedrooms. “He was going towards his room when I saw him. I met him coming out of mine. He kinda looked like he was gonna smite someone.” 

Dean gave him a short little nod in thanks and followed where Kevin had directed, leaving the Prophet to carry on his way. 

The door was open when he got there – an invitation, perhaps? Castiel must have known that someone would follow, if only to glance at him as they passed, as if they’d never been there to check on him. 

Castiel was perched on the edge of his bed, his elbows on his knees and his head hanging between his shoulders. Dean hesitated upon the threshold, lips parted slightly with unspoken words, before he closed the door behind himself and kept his mouth shut. 

He didn’t look up when Dean stepped inside, even though he purposefully made his steps firm on the floorboards so that Castiel would be aware of his presence. There was still no response when Dean went over and sat next to him. He left a respectable amount of distance, giving Castiel space. 

This silence was bizarrely peaceful, unlike the one outside. There was no need to fill it, no words that Dean could say that he thought could be comforting – it lasted until Castiel spoke. Dean didn’t push him or prompt him, and Castiel didn’t ask him to leave either, which he took as encouragement. 

When Castiel lifted his head to rest his chin on his clasped hands, Dean looked up, giving him all of his attention. Castiel kept his gaze on the wall opposite them, his expression almost thoughtful – but Dean, fluent in the language of Castiel, could see the weariness in the way his eyes were tugged down at the corners. 

“I thought I was… okay with things,” Castiel said slowly, softly. “My contact with my brothers has been nonexistent since I came here, and as such, I’ve been able to put it out of my mind.” He exhaled. The sound was slightly shaky. “The only reminder is the ache in my shoulders and the scorch marks on my back.” 

Dean breathed in sharply, eyebrows bumping up in surprise. He hadn’t known that his wings had actually _burned_ him. 

“It wasn’t until I saw Gabriel’s display of power that I realised how out of depth I feel as a human.” He sighed, shoulders curling inwards. “I’m staying afloat because of you and Sam, but this… it’s not me. To spend millennia as an angel and then lose it all in a handful of minutes…” 

Dean was quiet for a moment, soaking in Castiel’s words. He felt awful for not thinking that this might occur sooner; he might be fluent in Castiel, but there must have been some miscommunications along the way if he was missing these things. 

“Well… it’s gonna be hard to adjust at first, of course,” Dean replied. He spoke as slowly as Castiel had, trying to piece together his sentences carefully so he didn’t make the situation worse. “It’s bound to be difficult, Cas. It’s natural that you’re gonna feel outta place.” 

But Castiel just shook his head slightly, eyes falling closed. Lines crinkled his brow as he frowned, eyebrows pulling together. “No, Dean, it’s more than that. Being an angel is all I’ve ever known until very recently. Our years together have been little more than a second of my existence.” 

Well, when he put it that way… 

It was humbling to be reminded of how little Dean had experienced of Castiel, and to know how much he had changed in those years. He’d only just been coming out of what seemed like a robotic state when they’d met, and now here he was, human. 

“May I attempt to explain to you how things are from my perspective?” 

“If you think that’ll help, sure.” 

Castiel nodded once. He parted his lips, breathing out softly. He appeared to be gathering his thoughts, and, once his eyes were open, he began to talk. 

* * *

Castiel was never born. He simply came into being at some point in time along with his brothers and sisters. He knew who he was, what he was capable of, and his purpose – to love God and His creations, and to be a guide or protector for mankind, depending on what the situation called for. 

His Grace – a bright, glowing thing that filled him up with light from the inside out – gave him power and connected him to every single one of his siblings. They were a large family, numbering far more than he could ever hope to count. Their Graces always sang with joy and love for the connection. 

For millennia, Castiel followed his orders. He did what was asked of him as an Angel of the Lord, a Warrior of God, and a Guardian of Humanity. He loved the humans when God set them free upon Earth more than he loved their Father, just as He had commanded. When Lucifer disobeyed, Castiel didn’t understand why: the humans were beautiful creatures, made in their Father’s image, so why did he refuse? Surely if he truly loved God, he would do as He asked and turn that love elsewhere? 

Evidently not, for Castiel witnessed Michael throwing one of their once most glorious archangels into Hell, locking him away so he could do no more damage. 

Time moved on. Castiel became aware of the bloodline that would culminate in two special young men, but he never paid too much attention. Why should he? Castiel was a Seraph, not a Cupid; he was a battle-hardened soldier, not a matchmaker. He wasn’t involved – it wasn’t his place. It was for Lucifer, Michael, and the Cupids alone. 

That was, until curiosity began to get the better of him. 

Castiel knew that it was a dangerous feeling – the fact that it was even a feeling at all was cause for concern. He was an angel, he wasn’t supposed to _feel_ things. 

He heard that Michael’s vessel – Dean Winchester – had made a deal with a demon for his brother’s life. His soul was set to be dragged down to Hell within a year. To Castiel, that year was but a blink in his existence; in what seemed like seconds, Dean Winchester was being torn apart by hellhounds. 

There was no question that someone would have to retrieve him from Hell. Michael wouldn’t get his hands dirty even for his own vessel, and when it became apparent that very few angels were willing to dive into the burning pits for the task, Castiel stepped up. 

He was a strong soldier, but it was a hard battle to fight alone. Demons clawed out his feathers, refused to die on his blade until he was elbow-deep in their twisted excuses for souls, and once they even managed to hold him down and started to inflict their cruel torture upon him. Before long, he summoned the surge of Grace needed to burn them away. Once he was free, Castiel picked himself up and carried on, despite his exhaustion. 

Dean Winchester was a wreck when he found him. His soul was darkened, twisted by the torture of Hell; the form it took on – that of his body, trapped in a coffin on Earth – wore the near-blank face of a warrior at battle, the only feature being the snarl on his lips. While demons and those nearing that state taunted their prey, Dean’s mouth remained firmly shut. He would not mentally torture the souls under his hands. 

That was what allowed Castiel to see the beauty beneath the stains on his soul. 

Underneath, it shone with love. Castiel felt a jolt as he recognised that Dean’s soul felt familiar; like Castiel, who loved humanity, his family, and God, Dean cared for his brother and friends with his whole heart. Despite the taint Hell had left on him, he still had all of that love inside him. He was currently hidden away in a corner of himself, protecting whatever remained of his sanity, but he was easily salvageable. 

And when Castiel swooped in to save him, holding tight to the soul in case it struggled, Dean gripped back. It was enough to make Castiel’s Grace spark and seize the connection, searing a mark into Dean’s soul that would later manifest on his skin. 

As time wore on, Castiel found himself joining Sam and Dean Winchester more, and he dropped the surname in his thoughts when he considered them. He even came to be able to call them friends. Most shocking of all, however, was that he found he favoured them the most out of God’s creations, treasured them above all else. He felt true affection for the brothers, who were supposedly insignificant but only just coming to realise how important they were to the world. 

They taught Castiel about love, free will, and freedom. It was because of them that he found the ability to see the lies that Heaven had become, and found the strength in their friendship to challenge it. He only wished that he had listened to their warnings more. 

* * *

Castiel paused. He had finally twisted to face Dean, his knee crooking onto the bed to allow him to direct his words at his friend properly. 

Throughout Castiel’s storytelling, Dean had noticed that names had been left out, even though he recognised the tale as their own; ‘Castiel’ became ‘you’ – no doubt because he wanted Dean to put himself in his shoes – and ‘Dean’ became ‘he’, while Sam remained nameless. 

The words had been full of a passion that Castiel kept quiet these days. His love for everyone and everything had been clear, as obvious as the light of day. Dean had ignored the way that his heart had given a little flutter when he was told that he’d held onto Castiel in Hell; Dean had only one positive memory of that time, and that was the bright light stealing into his vision – and then nothing until he woke up in his grave. 

Castiel’s expression had changed, hardened slightly, as if he was preparing himself for something. He looked like he’d come to some kind of decision, and was reluctantly at peace with it. 

When he started speaking again, he was no longer asking Dean to imagine that he was a celestial being made of Grace. He simply spoke to him as Castiel to Dean, telling him their story. 

“I related more to one brother than the other,” he said, “the elder. I recognised parts of myself in him as I came to know him. We were both soldiers, both loyal to absent fathers, and we both had the ability to love _so much_.” Castiel’s fingers flexed in his lap, his hands crawling over each other in a gesture of fidgetiness. “I have never been closer to anyone, Dean.” 

Castiel settled his gaze on Dean’s then. There was significance in the look he was giving him, and it wasn’t just the slightly raised eyebrows that made it clear. He looked expectant, like Dean was supposed to be getting some kind of message. 

And there was longing. So, so much longing. 

Dean felt it, too. 

The things Dean had been suppressing rushed forth, crushing the walls he’d erected under the weight of that longing. Warmth flowed through him, and he parted his lips to murmur ‘Cas’ without realising. 

He loved Castiel. It was plain now. It didn’t matter that he was a man, it didn’t matter that he wasn’t technically human, it didn’t matter that their situation was shit. Dean loved him – had loved him for years, in fact, only he hadn’t picked apart the nature of that affection until now. 

The heady warmth of that love settled in his chest, and Dean welcomed it in. 

* * *

The library was always the perfect temperature, Sam thought. Not too cool, not too hot, like the rest of the bunker. It was almost like it had been precisely selected to allow for the best temperature for its inhabitants to work at. It wasn’t so warm that he’d feel sleepy, nor was it cold enough that he’d be distracted by shivers. 

The letter from ‘T’ was in front of him, as was the golden feather. It had wilted in the short time since Gabriel had left, curling inwards, bits of its fluff sticking together in clumps. It looked like it had been plucked from a sick bird. 

The sudden frenzied scribble of Kevin’s pencil on paper made Sam look up, eyebrows lifting. The Prophet didn’t stop for a second, not even as he flicked his eyes back towards the Tablet periodically. His lips were split into a wide, triumphant grin. 

He didn’t hesitate for a good minute or so. Then, once the scratching of graphite tapered off from uncertainty, he sat back, the pencil falling to the table with a tinkle. Kevin flexed the fingers of his hand, but his smile didn’t fade despite how much they must have been aching. Sam found himself on the receiving end of that radiant expression as Kevin said, “I’ve got it, I’ve got the spell that was used to shut Heaven.” 

Excitement brewed in Sam’s stomach. He folded the feather into the letter and tucked them into his pocket, putting away his own mystery for now. There was something more important at hand. 

“That’s great!” Sam enthused. “That’s gotta mean you’re on the right part of the Tablet. Maybe the spell to reverse it is there.” 

“I sure hope so.” Kevin tried to stifle a yawn, but his hand was too slow and ended up just thumping to rest on his chest. “Reading these things never gets any easier.” 

He sat up, leaning over his notes again. He picked up his pencil to point through the mess of letters, symbols, and swirls of simple boredom. “I dunno how much this is gonna help though – knowing what was used to lock it up, I mean. It’s not like we have any of this stuff just lying around if we need it again.” 

“It’s worth knowing,” Sam pointed out, shrugging. “Any and all information’s welcome right now, to be honest.” 

Kevin huffed a humourless laugh of agreement. “Yeah, I guess so. You ready for this? It’s some pretty heavy stuff here.” 

Sam raised an eyebrow. “When isn’t it heavy stuff?” 

The Prophet inclined his head in acknowledgement. “Okay, so what Metatron and Cas used was…” Here, Kevin trailed off, and when he picked up again Sam could hear the capitalisation of the words in his voice. “The Heart of a Nephilim, the Bow of a Cupid, and the… the Grace of an Angel in Love.” 

Kevin looked at Sam like the last part was supposed to be a surprise, but honestly, Sam couldn’t be more unfazed by the statement. He didn’t even have to think very hard about the identity of the person Castiel was in love with; he’d said that emotions were confusing as a human, as they were more intense. When he was an angel, it had been plainly obvious for Sam to see that Castiel was head over heels for his brother. 

He knew that Dean felt the same. He’d worked it out during the time when they’d thought Castiel had been killed by the Leviathan – Dean only reacted so negatively when a death hit particularly close to his heart, and he hadn’t seen him spiral like that since… 

Well. Since he’d sold his soul for Sam. 

If Castiel and Dean didn’t talk it over soon, Sam had the feeling that his brother wouldn’t let it go when they found out about the spell’s ingredients. He hoped that it would be a natural progression rather than a forced one. 

“I think I might’ve found the beginning to the reversal, actually,” Kevin added slowly. He was leaning over the Tablet again, frowning so hard that he was squinting at the runes. 

“Really?” 

“Yeah. I think… it’s different things, kinda related to the first spell. Uh… something about… ‘the Soul of the One Fallen to purify, the Blood of the One Fallen For to unite…’ I dunno.” He sighed, frustrated. “I need to look at this closer. It’s too tangled at the moment.” 

“No problem,” Sam assured him. “You deserve a rest.” 

It seemed like breaks were still something Kevin didn’t take too much advantage of, but even he could apparently see the sense in one now. He nodded, exhaling in relief as he trudged out of the library. Sam wondered if he was going to his room or to find aspirin. 

Sam briefly considered going to find the other two to tell them about this new development, but decided that he shouldn’t, not yet. Castiel had already been thrown off balance today, and this would only make matters worse, especially if it prompted a conversation that they weren’t ready to have. He felt a small stab of guilt at trying to stick his nose into their business, and resolved to leave them alone from now on. 

He settled on telling them when the time was right. With that in mind, Sam stole a piece of paper from the pile Kevin had left behind and started to write out the newly found information so he would remember. 

* * *

Castiel could tell that Dean had come to some kind of realisation. His shoulders had squared and his chin had tilted up a bit, like it did when he was preparing to go into battle. He wondered if that was a good sign or a bad sign. 

Had Dean even understood the message he was trying to get across? 

Castiel had only recently understood it himself. It had been difficult to recognise for what it was as an angel; all of his emotions had been slightly muted, even though he’d thought he’d felt them so sharply. As a human, it had all tangled together before he could even begin to sort out the mess of them. Now it was obvious. 

He loved Dean. 

Whenever he thought of him, there was longing amidst the affection. Castiel didn’t just want his company; he wanted the physical part of relationships, too. His experience with human pleasures so far in his existence had been enjoyable ones, and he wanted to share those and more with Dean. 

And yet, his words had been ambiguous – _“I have never been closer to anyone, Dean.”_ He hoped that Dean had been able to interpret the true meaning, because Castiel couldn’t work out how to phrase it. The social boundaries on this kind of thing were unknown to him. Was he supposed to say it formally? Informally? Simply lean in like Dean was doing and- 

Kiss him? 

Dean was kissing him? 

It was a very light touch, lasting no more than a couple of seconds, and it was just a brush of Dean’s mouth over his. Both of them kept their eyes open the entire time – Dean was checking that it was alright, while Castiel just couldn’t find the brain cells to close his eyelids. 

He could smell that distinct Dean-smell again: coffee, gunpowder, and the layer that was just him. Up this close, Castiel couldn’t see Dean’s freckles. They blended into the pink of his skin, while the green of his eyes was so much clearer. 

It was over far too quickly. 

Dean drew back when Castiel didn’t respond, worry leaking into those eyes instead of the wariness that had been there before. As Castiel pressed his lips together, faintly tasting Dean, he easily imagined what he was thinking. _Does he want this? Is he okay with it? Did I step over the line?_

A flare of panic fluttered in his chest when he saw Dean’s expression shut down. He gave a tiny nod to himself and began to get up, apparently intending to leave. Castiel wouldn’t allow it. 

He caught Dean’s wrist as he turned away, curling his fingers around it as he got to his feet to stand in front of him. Dean inhaled softly in surprise, raising his gaze to Castiel’s once more. Hope reappeared. 

Castiel’s other hand settled on Dean’s shirt, his fingers curling into the material as he tugged him forwards gently to reattach their mouths. This time, Castiel let his eyes close so he could fully appreciate it. 

Dean made a soft sound of surprise against Castiel’s lips, but then he melted forwards into the kiss. This time, the little, tentative pecks came from both sides, and soon developed into slightly longer presses. 

It was Castiel who withdrew this time, moving back a few inches so he wouldn’t be tempted to place their mouths together again. He released Dean’s shirt but kept his hold on his wrist, although it gentled. 

“I said that being human wasn’t something that felt natural to me,” he said slowly, eyebrows lifting slightly as he watched Dean, making sure he was paying attention. “However, on the other hand, it feels right to be here.” 

Everything felt like it had clicked into place for Castiel emotionally. This was so right, and it made sense to him. It was a natural step in his and Dean’s relationship, one that the both of them seemed to be completely on board with. Even if it hadn’t taken this path, Castiel knew without a doubt that he was destined to be beside Dean one way or another. 

Dean still hadn’t spoken, which was a rare occurrence or him. He was watching Castiel, blinking a little rapidly at points as if trying to clear his vision. As Castiel tilted his head, asking a silent question, Dean answered with a grin, one that was wide and joyful. Castiel couldn’t help but return it. 

When their lips met again, Castiel could feel that smile. 

* * *

Three kisses became four, four melted into five, and Dean lost count after that. His lips were starting to get a little sore though, so he figured it was somewhere in the realm of ‘a hell of a lot’. 

They’d migrated back to the bed, but aside from a cradled jaw or the slide of a palm on a forearm here and there, they’d kept their hands to themselves, which Dean was actually glad about. He already knew that he was in this for the long run; he wanted to wait a little while for sex this time. 

He wanted the kissing, though. And making out if it was an option. Maybe some missing shirts at most. 

After a length of time that Dean didn’t care to count, they finally parted with one last firm press of lips. Castiel’s hand slipped from the curve of his neck to rest in his own lap again; his tongue poked out to swipe at his lips, and even though Dean was sorely tempted to dive in again for just one more kiss, he restrained himself. 

Castiel’s eyes fluttered open, seeking out Dean’s immediately. A smile curved across his mouth, pulling it up at the corners. He looked the most relaxed Dean had seen him in weeks. 

“That was pleasant,” Castiel said. 

Dean gave a soft huff of laughter. His hand sneaked across the space between them to steal Castiel’s so he could slide his fingers in the gaps between his. He felt bizarrely cheerful. Maybe it was because he was in love. 

_In love._ No, that was too much like a chick-flick moment for Dean to feel comfortable with thinking of it right now. 

“It was awesome,” Dean agreed with a grin. “Should’ve done it sooner.” 

“I doubt it would have been the right time.” 

Dean raised his eyebrow, tilting his head in agreement. “True.” 

“It’s very different to how I’ve kissed before.” Castiel looked down at their hands thoughtfully, idly playing with Dean’s fingers. “When Meg and I kissed it was very…” 

“Heated?” Dean suggested, but Castiel shook his head. He was frowning, and his grip on Dean’s hand had tightened slightly. 

“Dean…” His gaze lifted again. Any lingering happiness over their coming together was gone – or, at least, put aside for now. Dean did the same, since the tone of the situation had changed, albeit reluctantly. “Dean, where’s Meg?” 

Dean hesitated, biting the inside of his lip. It wasn’t for his own sake that he paused, but for Castiel’s. He didn’t pretend to understand what had gone on between him and Meg; he was pretty damn sure that there had been a potent sexual nature to whatever relationship they’d had, but he had no idea whatsoever if it had been emotional, too. 

Dean’s hand squeezed Castiel’s back, providing comfort for what he was about to say. “She’s dead,” he said. “Crowley killed her. When you took off with the Tablet, I went back out and… and she was gone.” He swallowed. “I’m sorry.” 

Castiel’s fingers curled around his, holding on. He exhaled softly, eyes closing on the breath. “I see.” 

“I should’ve told you sooner,” Dean added. “It never really came up, and what with all the other shit happening, I figured more on your plate wouldn’t help.” 

“The death of a friend _is_ important, Dean.” There was frustration in Castiel’s voice along with sorrow now. Dean winced slightly, even though he knew he deserved the tone. 

“I know.” Meekly, he repeated, “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s not alright.” Castiel sighed, then added, “Everyone around us seems to die, don’t they?” 

Dean’s lips twitched up into a weak smile. “It’s part of being in the gang, or something like that.” He exhaled heavily. “This got depressing fast.” 

Castiel’s lips brushed his cheek. “True. Keep in mind that I _am_ frustrated with you for not telling me, and it’s given me more cause to want to rid the world of Crowley. However, I hope you know that this isn’t a… ‘deal-breaker’?” It was phrased like a question, as if he was unsure of the usage of the word. 

Dean hadn’t even started to worry – although, now that he thought about it, there had been tingles of doubt. He took this first dodged bump in the road as a sign that he and Castiel would be good for each other, flaws and all. 

* * *

Sam was disappointed in himself that he didn’t notice the change for a little while. Castiel and Dean both seemed to be in good moods when they all met in the kitchen to prepare something to eat; Dean had the kind of grin he only had when he either got laid or had made Sam happy (and Sam hadn’t seen him since Gabriel, so that ruled out the latter), and Castiel had one of those quiet smiles that tugged on his lips and crinkled at the corners of his eyes. 

He still didn’t pick up on it when they moved to the table and tempted Kevin out with the scent of hotdogs. He and Dean sat opposite each other, Sam sat next to Kevin, and Dean sat next to Castiel, as usual. Nothing felt different, nothing transpired to make him think that anything had occurred beyond a pep-talk to get Castiel back to his usual self. 

He didn’t even get it when they had eye-sex with each other, because that was, unfortunately for him, normal. Sam had endured it so much that it had actually become a habit to avert his gaze whenever such a thing happened to give them privacy, even if Dean would protest that there wasn’t any reason for it. 

After eating, they all agreed to spend the evening together with a movie. Dean suggested _The Rocky Horror Picture Show_ because neither Kevin nor Castiel had seen it, and both Winchesters agreed that that was a crime. 

They settled down in Dean’s room. They stuck Sam’s laptop on the desk, turned it towards them, and made themselves comfortable on his bed. Kevin took his place at the edge, settled quite happily with his bowl of popcorn. Sam had moved in next to him, using one of Dean’s pillows to give his back something comfortable to lean on. 

It was only when he was arranging the pillow that he noticed. 

Dean and Castiel had managed to occupy the last half of the space while simultaneously sitting close to one another. As he watched, Dean lifted his arm over Castiel’s head to rest it behind him on the headboard. The motion looked natural, as did the moment when Castiel shifted marginally closer, turning enough to lean against Dean’s chest a little. 

Dean glanced over, his expression pinched into wariness, concern, and a little bit of worry. He looked over at Kevin, who hadn’t even batted an eyelid at the cuddling (which Sam had no doubt Dean would later insist was _not cuddling, I don’t cuddle_ ), and when he was satisfied, his gaze skipped to Sam’s shoulder, paused, and finally moved up to his face. 

He raised an eyebrow. _Problem?_

Sam gave a small shake of his head. _Nope._ He offered a small grin. _It’s about time._

Dean’s features relaxed. His lips thinned and he gave a playful glare. _Shut up._ An elbow poked him in the side; Sam returned it. 

“Stop moving,” Castiel muttered. 

The brothers shared a silent laugh before they both looked back at the laptop screen. 

Dean evidently relaxed by the time Doctor Frank-N-Furter was raising his creature ( _in more ways than one_ , Dean jokingly pointed out, much to Kevin’s amusement). He’d apparently taken to heart Sam’s silent approval; while he wasn’t exactly curled around Castiel like a snake, he was leaning into him, and the back of Castiel’s head had moved to his shoulder. 

It had taken them a long time to get there, Sam thought, but now that they’d both gotten their heads out of their asses, he was happy for them. And, when Sam saw that Kevin spotted them, he simply rolled his eyes and went back to his popcorn with a mutter of ‘losers’.


	11. After Me Comes The Flood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs for this chapter:
> 
> Après Moi - Regina Spektor  
> When It's Cold I'd Like To Die - Moby

Burning. It was a painful sensation. It was so hot that it was cold, searing along feathers and flesh and bone to leave little behind. The rushing wind did little to soothe it, merely aggravating the unnatural fire and urging it to consume more, to take away everything and leave a grounded angel.

Colopatiron was shocked that she could feel. 

It wasn't like before when she was injured in battle; she’d been able to ignore that, push aside the feeling and heal it before it became a nuisance. But this was all-consuming, attention-hogging, and fear-inducing. 

If her wings were burning, what did that make her? What would be left behind? Would she even be an angel anymore? What would remain of her Grace? 

She twirled in the air, unable to control her fall now as one wing became entirely useless, the feathers completely gone. A single one – white, tinged with black that wasn’t supposed to be there – fell away and tumbled into the blackness. 

It was enough to light a new fire, one that was inside Colopatiron. The need for glorious vengeance upon those who had done this burned hotter than the flames tickling her back. 

Someone was going to pay for this sin. 

Colopatiron opened the Grace connection with her brothers and sisters, and then almost immediately snapped it shut again when she was greeted with screams, howls, and cries for help. However, she widened it enough to search among the voices for their leader, for Naomi, which distracted her enough that she didn’t see where she was falling until the flames abruptly went out. 

Water hissed on the remains of her wings as she suddenly stopped falling, sinking into cool water instead; they pulled up as she went down, down, down, too weak to try to pull them against her back to stop the muscles from being pulled uncomfortably. 

She eventually settled on the bottom, making a little dip in the sand underneath her. Apparently, some of her powers still existed, as the need to breathe wasn’t pressing like she’d been fearing it would be; water filled her lungs, but it didn’t choke her. Colopatiron pulled her wings towards herself, but when she was scared to see how they appeared, she simply pressed them against her back. 

The link between herself and her siblings was silent with shock now. It rang faintly, a high, hollow sound, as if to illustrate the emptiness of it. The pinpricks of light that made up most of the angels were still there – some had died in the fall, she realised – but not a single one broke the quiet. 

It left her to bury her face in her vessel’s knees and wrap her ruined wings around herself. Where before feathers would have brushed against her arms comfortingly, there was only the rasp of bone on a suit’s sleeve. 

Gradually, calls for mates and superiors started to go out across the Grace’s link. The voice that she heard loudest of all was Paschar’s, frantic and desperate. She immediately reached out, soothing him with the gentle touch of her mind, relief flowing across to him, too. Her wings swept out as she began to slowly swim towards the surface, but they did little to help her, moving uselessly and just getting in the way more than anything else. 

When air broke across her face, Colopatiron heaved up the water that rested heavily in her lungs. It tasted disgusting, she realised, which almost made her choke on it because she could _taste_ , which led to her remembering that she could _hurt_. 

Paschar was still worriedly grabbing at their tenuous connection, declaring that he would be there momentarily, as he hadn’t landed very far away; they’d been together when they’d been thrown from Heaven. Colopatiron acknowledged him with another tendril of thought. 

They met at the edge of the lake. When Paschar spotted her crawling up out of the water, he rushed forwards, clutching at her vessel’s soaked suit anxiously as he heaved her upright. As Colopatiron shook water from her eyes, she saw that they were surrounded by forest; it made her feel comfortable, like she was wrapped in green wings. 

“Colopatiron!” Paschar gasped, fingers still wrapped tightly in the hem of her jacket. As she lifted her gaze to meet his, it moved away, looking over her shoulder; his mouth fell open, a low moan of loss escaping him. “Your… your wings…” 

She reached out, running a gentle palm down his arm as she also peered over his shoulder. Paschar’s wings were in a far worse state than hers; one of them even appeared to be broken, as it was at an awkward angle and was trailing along the ground. The other was pressed tightly to his back as if to protect it from further harm. Both were, like hers, featherless. 

“Don’t look at them,” she murmured. She pressed her hand to his cheek, gently turning his face back to hers. The vessel’s face didn’t do his true form’s beauty any justice, Colopatiron thought sadly. Human skin and bone could only represent so much of an angel. 

Her gaze drifted, settling on a log at the edge of the trees. “Come,” she said softly, hand dropping. “Let’s sit.” 

Rather than link hands like a human couple would have to seek comfort, Colopatiron and Paschar linked their Grace. It calmed the steady thrum of panic under Paschar’s surface that always seemed to be there. Like she had done so before many times, Colopatiron thought it was a shame that such a wonderful angel was burdened with the uneasiness that came with his gift. 

Before, Colopatiron would have placed a wing around his shoulders. Now, she kept them against her back, unwilling to use them very much. 

“What happened?” he whispered. His Grace tightened around hers, like fingers around a hand. 

“I don’t know,” she answered truthfully. Colopatiron hesitated, about to ask him if he could see it, but then the familiar tremble of his Grace shook across her own, and she stayed silent. 

He was already visualising it. 

Paschar gave a low wail when the pictures presented themselves. It wasn’t as clear to Colopatiron, as she was only seeing it from their joining, but one face stood out as clear as day – Castiel. 

She felt no surprise, but there was a surge of anger. She stood, snarling, and physically wrenched herself away from Paschar, even as he continued to relay more information to her through thought alone; the two were used to communicating this way, as human speech could never fully capture the depth of their connection. This was far more familiar to them. 

Metatron had apparently stolen Castiel’s Grace for the spell that had kicked them out of their home, and now the former angel was alone. 

Colopatiron’s hands formed fists at her sides as she tipped back her head, staring up at the night sky. “Brothers! Sisters!” she shouted. She saw Paschar wince out of the corners of her eyes as every angel zoned in on her; she narrowed their link so he wouldn’t be overwhelmed. 

“We must unite!” Colopatiron turned on the spot, gaze flitting to and fro, as if she would be able to see them soaring towards her. That desire was nothing but a joke in poor taste now. “Come to me! We must regroup and heal before we can retake our home!” 

Footsteps scuffled across the ground as Paschar came closer, his fingers touching her sleeve to catch her attention. Colopatiron placed a subtle barrier between her mind and the other angels’ so they could speak in private. 

“What are you doing?” he asked, teeth sinking into his lower lip out of nerves. “Why are you summoning them? They can heal alone, we don’t need to be together-” 

He fell silent at the creak of old joints. Colopatiron’s skeletal wings rose, spreading out from her back in what would have once been a domineering gesture, but now it was just pitiful. “I am creating an army,” Colopatiron growled. “Without a leader, we flounder. Naomi is missing. If I don’t step in, who will?” 

When no reply was forthcoming, she continued. “The angels must be purified, Paschar. We have fallen too often. We must remove Castiel and Metatron from our ranks. If we can retrieve a single archangel, we will be in a much better place than before.” 

Gabriel and Raphael were dead, unfortunately. Michael, however, was merely trapped. He was accessible. 

Colopatiron took both of Paschar’s hands, even going so far as to fit her fingers into the gaps between his. “Will you help me, my love?” 

There was no hesitation before his nod, even if it was plain that he was terrified. “I would follow you anywhere, Colopatiron, you know that.” Paschar waited a beat before adding, “And I’ll use my visions to watch over the others.” 

“You don’t have to-” 

“I want to.” 

She still paused, searching his expression for his certainty. It was there, firm behind his eyes despite the waver that was always there. Proud of him, Colopatiron tilted his chin up and placed a soft kiss on his lips. 

She then walked away, releasing his hands as she moved to the edge of the lake. The wings grated as they folded against her back once more. 

“It’s time for a new age of angels,” Colopatiron announced. “We must return to what we were before, when we were powerful. Naomi failed at cleansing us – I will not. We will be soldiers of God once more, Paschar.” A quiet laugh of joy escaped her. “How does our future look?” 

A quiet few seconds passed before he answered. 

“Bright.” 

* * *

In Abaddon’s opinion, Hell had never burned so brightly. Crowley had sullied it, turning it into a business instead of what it was supposed to be, what it had been _written_ as for millennia. Rebuilding it had taken longer than she’d thought, but now she was pleased with the result. 

With Crowley, Hell had been clean and efficient. It had been less about the torture aspect and more about the anticipation of it. The souls hadn’t been begging for freedom but had questioned when the pain was going to be come. There _had_ been some that had received it, only they were off to the side, deep in the corridors simply to implicate that it would be the end result. There was nothing concrete, no solid evidence that they would be harmed. 

Abaddon had relished tearing it apart to start anew. Like Crowley’s metaphorical throne, she had taken it apart, piece by piece, until she stood tall in the rubble. 

Hell had become fire and brimstone, chains and hooks, knives and hot pokers. It was like it had been in the days when Dean Winchester called it home. Souls were strung up to receive their penance while others tortured and tempted them. _Just pick up the knife, sir. It’ll all be over if you just pick up the knife. You’ll never be hurt again if you pick – up – the – knife._

It was a shame that Alastair wasn’t around anymore to witness it. Abaddon had admired his work. He would have been pleased. 

Abaddon strolled through her domain, ash churning underfoot to billow around her in clouds. It was like a floating grey dress, furling across the toes of her boots. The heat of Hell pressed around her, swelteringly perfect. The screams of the damned was music; the flickers of flame was what she would sleep by for comfort. 

There were three special places in Hell for three special people. 

Every queen had to have her throne, and Abaddon had made herself a point on which to stand when she looked out across Hell. Perfectly placed were three points, lovingly created with those three people specifically in mind. 

Sam, Dean, and Crowley. They each had a spot on the rack reserved for them. Abaddon’s lips curled up into a smile as she passed, trailing her fingertips across the stone tables. She would be the one to take her part in torture here. She had it all planned out, had had it visualised since she built the places. 

She would only give them hints of chances to come off of the rack, to escape; there would be only brief rests while she went about her business as the Queen of Hell. However, Abaddon had no intention whatsoever of letting them go forever – either they would become her soldiers once their souls had become nothing, or they would stay under her knife for eternity. 

Alas, Abaddon wasn’t home to plot and plan; she had had enough time to do that when her demons were rebuilding her vessel for her. She was fond of the red-haired one, and as soon as her followers had heard of her continued existence, they had lovingly recreated it. The stitches that held her head in place were gone, smoothed away by the hands of demons. 

Abaddon had spent enough time circling Hell as little more than oily black smoke. She had used the time to create her plans. That was enough time wasted already. Her nails dug into the stone beneath her hand slightly, crumbling a little, but it only reformed when she moved on. She could fantasise about how she would slice Crowley’s new soul later. There was work to do. 

A literal wall of fire roared before her, cutting off a section of Hell for the sake of the demons’ safety. The fire wouldn’t hurt them, of course, but it was a warning to stay clear. 

Abaddon swept a hand through it, the flames briefly blackening her skin before she healed it with a thought. With an abrupt hiss, the fire went out; the crack it had erupted from still glowed, although it didn’t burst into flame again. 

She barely even needed to raise her hand and click – an order for others to join her – before the familiar swoops and swirls of demons twisted through the air around her. They formed people before her, demons that were eager to do her bidding. There were no traditional gestures of respect like bowing, because Abaddon knew she already had it. 

Not all demons had been pleased with the way Crowley had run the place, apparently. Like her, they’d found the business side of matters to be ridiculous; an average of ten years of waiting per soul just wasn’t feasible. All the talk Crowley had about ‘keeping up the image’ was crap too, because who really believed in demons until they summoned them? 

What customers could they chase away? Only desperate people came to demons, and unless the deal required more time, where was the harm in reaping the soul instantly? Hell could never be full. It could always expand. There would always be space. 

“We’re going to retrieve a soul from the Cage,” Abaddon said, voice crisp and clear even over Hell’s soundtrack. “He will be a valuable asset to us in unnerving the Winchesters and making them vulnerable to attack. We can rid ourselves of a part of this war with him!” 

The demons gave a roar of joy, giving Abaddon no doubt that, despite the danger, they wouldn’t turn away from this. The rewards were far too great. No Winchesters would mean less chance of being killed, and less chance of being killed meant more souls. 

Crowley just hadn’t known how to use the demons correctly. Abaddon, on the other hand, knew the exact tune to play. 

She turned, head held high as she stepped over the crack in the ground. The flames sputtered, threatening to reignite, but remained unlit. She picked her way across the rock and spots of flame that made up the path towards her goal: a dark corner of Hell, tucked away where nobody would accidentally go. As she approached, the demons fanned out behind her, skulking in a loose triangle. 

The doors should have been almost comically bound shut with more links and padlocks than she could count. She should have been able to hear the metal rattling as the creatures inside fought with each other, lacking anything else to do. 

What she actually found was the Cage’s locks open, the chains scattered to the floor. The doors were shut and it was silent inside, worryingly so. No sounds came from the Cage, no locks jingled, no angry shouts met her ears. 

Uneasiness stirred in Abaddon. Where were the archangels? 

“Open it,” she commanded. 

Two demons rushed forwards to pry at the doors, fitting their fingers into the small gap in the middle to haul it open. The ancient doors groaned in complaint, scraping over the uneven ground. The rest of the group surged forwards as if to shield Abaddon from any attacking archangels, bravely sacrificing themselves for her, but it wasn’t necessary. 

There was only silence. 

She walked forwards through the cloying smoke of Hell, moving the demons aside as she entered the Cage. 

It was larger than it seemed to be on the outside, providing ample space for the celestial beings it was supposed to house. The floor was splattered with blood, far more than should be there; idly, Abaddon wondered if some of the stains were Sam Winchester’s from his time in the Cage. She could already identify the majority of them as Adam’s. 

Abaddon had never known how cruel this box could be. It was truly fascinating to see that, on the inside, it did look like its name suggested: a cage. There were bars instead of walls, crisscrossing to prevent any escape. It was a bizarre mix of dark and light inside, as if the Cage was deliberately trying to put off whoever stepped into its walls. Abaddon winced as a blinding flash hit her face, momentarily disorienting her. 

It was impossible to tell how much time had passed before she found Adam’s soul. She had feared that he’d escaped when Michael and Lucifer apparently had, but no, he was still there. His soul had taken the form of his physical body and curled up in the corner, knees hugged to his chest. He didn’t move at all. Perhaps he’d adopted the habit of remaining still to be ignored. 

Without preamble, Abaddon reached out for the soul and pulled him close. A quiet whimper came from inside the glowing bundle that she lifted into her arms. 

She gave it a quick onceover to see what her chances were, and a cruel smile played on her lips as she found them to be satisfactory. His soul was a delicious mix of black and white, conflicted as to what it was – human or demon? – after spending so long as a punching bag for two archangels. It was a far better torture than anyone in Hell could have inflicted upon him, and it made him perfectly easy to influence. 

As Abaddon turned on her heel, intending to begin the long trip back to the door, she pondered the missing archangels. What could have sprung them from their trap? Was it perhaps due to the same reason that angels were now wandering the Earth? It wasn’t an encouraging thought; archangels were one of the few beings that could destroy her. 

Abaddon cradled Adam’s soul to her breast like a mother would to a child, trying to comfort the subtly shaking thing in her arms. As she finally spotted the door, demons swarmed over and around her, easing her back out of the sticky grip of the Cage that tried to hold onto its prisoner. As soon as she set foot on Hell’s ground again, they left her to busy themselves with closing the Cage. Judging by the yells, some demons were trapped inside in the others’ haste to shut it. 

She turned her attention to the soul. With gentle touches and murmured words, she encouraged it to take the form of its body once more instead of the pulsing ball in her hands. It seemed to melt, morphing and rippling until the youngest Winchester brother was stood before her. He cowered, sensing the raw power inside her. 

However, instead of attacking him like a certain two archangels might, she drew him close again, wrapping him in a gentle hug. Starved for an affectionate touch, he went easily, a sob making his skinny frame tremble. Abaddon hushed him softly, placing a hand on the back of his head under the guise of soothing him. 

But, as she combed her fingers through his hair in a gentle, comforting massage, she brought a familiar surge of power to her fingertips. She pressed more darkness into his soul through the light touch, pulling it more towards its demonic side. He shuddered, briefly rejecting it, before giving in and accepting the dark energy that strengthened him. 

Abaddon smiled. Adam would be a valuable weapon against the Winchesters when the change was complete. She would get her demons to recreate his body like they did for hers so he could appear before his brothers as himself. She wanted to shock them as much as possible, hopefully for long enough that she could finish them off before they could react, or at least incapacitate them. She would get Crowley’s location from them and then send them all to Hell. 

Crowley had once asked if he was the only one who didn’t underestimate the Winchesters. Abaddon was of the mind to quickly sweep their pieces off of the chessboard so she only had one enemy to deal with: the angels. 

She was playing dirty by using one of their family members against them. She could have easily retrieved John Winchester’s soul – he was in the depths of Hell, too – but it wouldn’t be as surprising as having the brother they’d failed return to them. 

Abaddon was going to take the Winchesters down. Whether that was by delivering Adam to them as a newly turned demon or simply drawing them out to strike like a cobra, it had to happen. They needed to die, they needed to be on Hell’s rack, and they needed to be out of the picture so they couldn’t endanger her throne. 

“Begin searching for Michael and Lucifer,” she ordered her demons, throwing the words over her shoulder at them. “They need to be found and tracked. Lucifer might be helpful, but don’t attempt to contact him. We’ll keep our distance for now.” 

She doubted that Lucifer would make allies with any of their enemies, but Michael was a problem. As the (arguably) purest of the archangels, he would want her dead the most. It was important to watch him like a hawk in case he indeed decided to team up with the angels or the Winchesters. 

Unfortunately, finding Crowley and slicing him apart would have to wait – unless she stumbled across him, of course. There were more important things to do than cut herself a piece of revenge. His time would come; she just had to wait for it. 

Adam snivelled in her arms, returning her focus to him. “Shh,” Abaddon murmured, withdrawing far enough to tilt his chin up with a gentle finger. “No more tears. Just relax. You can get the revenge you want soon, I promise.” 

Again, it was the slight prod of suggestion into his brain that prompted him to nod in agreement. She needed him to be a vengeful demon, not one to stand by and watch smugly. She could sense the potential there within him; it was just a matter of drawing it out. 

“Come with me. Why don’t we begin your training?” 

She offered him a hand. 

Abaddon could see the thought process in his head. She had pulled him from the Cage, she had been the first to offer him comfort in centuries – Abaddon was only guessing at the time he’d spent in Hell; it moved strangely in comparison to Earth time – and now she was going to teach him to be strong so he couldn’t be hurt like that again. 

Adam placed his hand in hers. 

* * *

Without other angels to fill the empty spaces, Heaven was a large, open, empty place. The rooms were naturally spacious to accommodate the beings when they were in their true forms, but were adaptable depending on the situation. It was one of the joys of being Heaven’s guardians, Metatron supposed. 

He hadn’t changed Heaven’s structure at all, unlike Abaddon in Hell. He’d left it as it was, preserved in its frozen state. It wouldn’t be changed at all in his time as its ruler; Metatron wanted it to stay exactly as it was. He could have ripped it up, torn the place to pieces in a tantrum for when the angels came back, but that was more Lucifer’s style. 

No, Metatron had squirreled himself away in Heaven’s library with all of its glorious books. They were far better company than those of his kind had ever been to him. Books and silence were his friends. 

For the first time in centuries, however, Metatron had grown tired of books. He had already read the texts elsewhere or they were of no interest to him, and he didn’t have any interest in rereading them. When the echoing halls became too much to bear, he finally allowed himself to look down to Earth to check up on the situation. 

First, he sought out Castiel. He felt no fondness for him, only the amusement that a king might to his subjects. What was frustrating, though, was that he couldn’t see Castiel, where he was, or who he was with. If Metatron couldn’t entertain himself with stories from books, why wasn’t he allowed to follow the one that belonged to his favourite pawn? 

What was even stranger was that he could only sense the happiness that came from him. The other angels weren’t anywhere near the realm of happy, so what had changed in Castiel’s life to make him feel that? Metatron ached to know. 

When he moved on to look at the angels, it chilled him to see them arranged so well. Colopatiron was a natural leader, and she had Paschar and Nisroc by her side, the Angels of Vision and Freedom, respectively. When coupled with Colopatiron as the Angel of Liberation, they made a formidable team. 

She would no doubt come close to succeeding in reclaiming Heaven – perhaps she’d even actually manage it. Hesitantly, Metatron looked closer to see what they were doing. 

They were trying to find Michael. Through Paschar, they had apparently discovered that he was out there somewhere, thanks to Metatron’s spell pulling every angel but him to Earth. He cursed under his breath; he couldn’t see where Michael was, but as soon as the angels got him to join them, Metatron was surely a goner. There was no way he would be able to stand against an archangel’s wrath. 

Fleetingly, he hoped that he could get away with it because it caused Michael’s return, but he soon dismissed the idea; he wouldn’t be rewarded for casting every other angel out of Heaven. He would be punished harshly. 

Metatron spread his wings – coloured like the pale, aged brown of parchment – and flew deeper into Heaven, fleeing the library. If he was to remain alive, he needed to either reinforce the strength of its boundaries or hide away, and he couldn’t possibly do the former against an archangel. He could, theoretically, go down to Earth and find some rebel angels to help him, but it would be foolish to attract the attention of his siblings. 

He decided to find the deepest, darkest corner of Heaven and remain there until it all blew over. Then he would either escape or still have Heaven to himself. Only time would tell.


	12. Family Doesn't End With Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs for this chapter:
> 
> Vengeance - Abney Park  
> Scream - Avenged Sevenfold

Crowley had been minding his own business ever since Dean had released him from the church, not counting that one time he’d run into Castiel and had spent a few days in his company. It had been bizarrely pleasant to run with someone he knew for a short while, but old feuds and their present situation had prompted Crowley to take his leave. Besides, he knew that Castiel would never have taken him to the Winchesters – not that he wanted to be near them; they’d kill him.

To escape the notice of Abaddon’s grunts, Crowley had disguised himself. Doing so had unfortunately meant that he’d had to rid himself of his beloved suit, which was torn and bloodied anyway. In its place, he’d donned clothes that were relatively smart, but were, unfortunately, nowhere near the level of his preferred clothing. 

He was wearing a _hoodie_ , something he’d never thought he’d be caught dead in. Along with that was a scarf tucked around his throat, and a pair of sunglasses to hide his eyes. It was uncomfortable, itchy, and too baggy in comparison to his form-fitting suits, but it had to do. 

The diner he’d chosen was nice. It was warm and had the background noise of chatting customers, but the tea wasn’t fantastic. However, it was enough. Crowley hadn’t been so relaxed in a while. 

It was that that was his downfall, he’d later realise. He’d let his guard down accidentally, and it was only when he caught the scent of sulfur that he noticed that something was wrong. Subtly, he glanced up over his drink, scanning the diner. 

It was crawling with demons. Everywhere he looked, Crowley saw the twisted faces of his own kind behind the human masks; the swirling black smoke stretched out underneath their skin, fitting into it snugly. It disgusted Crowley to know that he wouldn’t look the same to them now. They’d see the sickly glow of a twisted combination of soul and demon, neither here nor there. 

Deciding it was time to make his escape, Crowley placed the money for his tea on the table and stood up, adjusting his scarf. He tugged it up around his chin, covering up more of his face. If he’d had the strength, he might have even tried to find a different vessel. 

Freedom was just outside the door. If he could make it out, there wouldn’t be any need to cause a scene for the humans that remained inside the diner. 

His stomach rolled uncomfortably; before, Crowley commanded these creatures, and now they were out to capture him to drag back to their new ruler. Just fabulous. 

Seconds away from fresh air, a hand landed on his shoulder, squeezing impossibly tight. Despite his remaining demonic power, Crowley still felt the crush of muscle under the grip, but he stifled his wince, instead preferring to tug a little and see how successful that would be. The demon didn’t even shift its grip. 

“Bollocks,” Crowley muttered. 

The stench of sulfur increased as the demons came closer, circling around him like a pack of dogs. The mutter of conversation faded from the humans as they watched warily, unsure whether they should intervene. Crowley knew that they wouldn’t even if a beating occurred, as humans were selfish beings and would think about their own necks first. 

“Let’s talk about this,” Crowley proposed, pushing up his sunglasses and tugging down his scarf to offer a charming smile. “You let me go and I’ll give you a good position when I take my place in Hell again. How does that sound?” 

His answer was a wet thud, a splitting pain in the back of his head, and blackness descending over his vision. 

* * *

The bunker was comfortably quiet now. It was the kind of quiet that signalled that the inhabitants of the place were happy and content, at least for the moment. Sam could faintly hear the soft hum of voices from where he stood in the bedroom corridor, way further down in the dining room. 

He had no real aim as he wandered. He simply felt that he should do the rounds and check on everyone, so he knew where they all stood. 

Sam found himself outside Kevin’s door, so he raised his fist and knocked lightly before letting himself in. He only opened the door a little way, peering around it to see inside. 

Like everyone else’s rooms, Kevin’s had accumulated things to make it his own. Sam had files from the Men of Letters’ basement; Dean had weapons; Castiel had books; and Kevin had papers pinned to the walls. They were covered in scrawls and scribbles, symbols that Sam couldn’t interpret. They were meaningless to him except where Kevin had seen fit to add translations. 

The boy himself was sat at his desk, the Tablet in front of him. Sheets of lined paper surrounded it, but, for once, Kevin wasn’t particularly paying attention to it. 

He was actually looking at books. Kevin was curled up in his desk chair with earphones in, the music so loud that Sam could hear it from the doorway. A book was balanced on his knees as he glanced between his notes and the pages, but there was no sense of urgency about it. 

As Sam poked his head in, Kevin looked up and pulled out his earphones, a small yet welcoming smile on his face. Sam stepped further into the room, replying with a smile of his own. “Hey.” 

“Hey.” Kevin raised his hand to give Sam a little wave. “What’s up?” 

“Nothing.” Sam shrugged, sliding his hands into his pockets. “How’re you doing?” 

“Not bad. You?” 

Sam huffed a quiet laugh. “I’ve never been better, actually. So you’re taking it easy, huh?” 

“Sorta.” Kevin sat up, shifting the papers around on his desk into a pile. “I’m crosschecking the details about the reversal spell I’ve found so far to see if there’s anything in any of the books. My head was killing me again, but I didn’t wanna stop working.” 

He glanced up, nodding towards the hunk of stone. “I can feel that I’m close to a breakthrough, but there’s so much junk in the way. There’s so many ways to read it, it’s hard to know which way’s the right one. That’s why it gives me headaches. It can be up, down, side to side… once it was even diagonal.” 

Sam felt new respect for Kevin then. He’d always held some regard for the Prophet and the pain his gift put him through, but knowing that it was that much harder for him put him on a higher pedestal in Sam’s head. 

“And it turns out that I did get the second thing right before,” he added. “So far it’s ‘Soul of the One Fallen’ and ‘Blood of the One Fallen For’. And seeing as the other spell was all about love…” He trailed off, inclining his head towards Sam with a knowing look. 

Sam smiled wryly, recalling the last time this topic had come up. His suspicions lay on Castiel and Dean, given that one of the ingredients was the Grace of an angel in love, and after the recent developments, his faith in his theory had only strengthened. 

Of course, that didn’t bode well for the future. The thought was a sobering one, and finalised his decision to tell the two of them what Kevin had found, even though they didn’t yet know any more details. As he’d learned, it wouldn’t hurt to be prepared. 

The thud of book pages snapping shut startled him out of his thoughts. Kevin dropped it on top of the Tablet and stretched his arms over his head, joints popping as he yawned. “I’m gonna take a break,” he informed Sam once his hands had fallen back into his lap. 

“You deserve it,” Sam encouraged. “Take as long as you need.” 

Kevin grinned. “Thanks.” He picked up his laptop, which had been resting in the corner of his desk, and headed over to his bed, tangling the other hand in his earphones as he fought to take them from the MP3 in his pocket. Sam left him to it. 

He paused outside in the corridor briefly, the smile slowly slipping from his face as his muscles relaxed again. A few steps brought him to the door to his own room, which he stopped outside of, fingers wriggling as he debated over whether to go inside. 

He’d changed a lot since the young man at Stanford, Sam realised with a sense of sadness. He had faced and met death – meaning he’d been killed and met capital-d-Death – far more than any one human being should have. Sam knew what he wanted from life now, and it wasn’t hunting; he wanted a family, a safe home with two-point-five kids, and maybe even a dog. 

He wanted Dean there with him. 

As Sam moved on, he smiled to himself at the thought of his brother. Dean Winchester, who now had a light at the end of the tunnel like Sam did, a light that symbolised so much more than just a future. It was a person, one that was the Grace of an angel even though, technically, the angel in question was Graceless: Castiel, the being who, aside from Sam himself, was one of the few people that could truly match Dean as a hunter. Neither would be weaker or stronger than the other. They would be truly equal hunting partners. 

Sam wanted that for Dean. He’d known for a long time that, unlike him, Dean couldn’t settle down. He wasn’t that kind of person. He’d never be able to sit still when he knew that there were monsters out there hunting innocent people. 

Castiel was the same, which was why he was such a perfect match for Dean. He wouldn’t rest until all was well either. He’d keep on fighting, keep on picking Dean up and being there for him when Sam couldn’t. 

Because the truth was that Sam was tired. Unlike Dean and Castiel, he couldn’t keep hunting forever; he needed a stable life, something that he’d never had the chance to experience properly. He’d left the hunting life originally for a reason, and that was to escape it. After everything was over here, he was done. 

He had no doubt that he’d still be wary once he was out of the business; that was only natural given how much he knew about the supernatural world. Maybe he could be Dean’s Bobby, supplying him with information for hunts, while he worked on getting that abandoned law degree. 

Sam let his hand fall back to his side as he moved on. As he went, he considered the change in the relationship between Dean and Castiel. From what he’d seen, they didn’t even act that different now that they were a couple (although, to be fair, it had only been a couple of days). When he and Kevin were around, there were only little things, like brief touches on the elbow or lingering warm looks. 

He ended up at the dining room; the source of the voices, now gone silent. 

Sam suspected that there were going to be far more moments like these, where he walked in on the two locked at the lips. He’d seen Dean doing far worse over the years, but it still wasn’t exactly a pleasant sight to see. 

It wasn’t a passionate kiss – Sam didn’t know if they were at that stage yet; he suspected that they were going slowly, slower than he’d ever known Dean to be. At least, he hadn’t heard any suspicious sounds in the night yet. No, it was the intensity of the affection that he could feel from his spot in the doorway that was making him uncomfortable more than the kiss itself. 

It was the sight of two people clearly in love and, if he was honest, he missed it. He missed having someone to curl up with before sleep, having the company, fulfilling the need he felt for that kind of relationship. 

However, he wouldn’t begrudge Dean what he had with Castiel, because it was about time that he found someone to be serious with instead of another one night stand. As far as he knew, it was only Lisa that he ever had something close to stable with. This would be a good experience for Dean. 

And as for Castiel, well. It had been obvious to Sam for a long time that he held Dean very close to his heart, as close as he held his love for humanity as a whole, so it was only a matter of time before he realised his feelings once his emotions had settled down from the initial upheaval of finding himself human. 

Sam cleared his throat, and the two broke apart. Dean’s cheeks flushed pink with embarrassment as he disentangled himself from Castiel, and he firmly averted his gaze from his brother. Castiel just pressed his lips together and tried to hide a smile, but it crinkled the corners of his eyes, keeping it from being truly smothered. 

“Hello, Sam,” Castiel greeted. 

“Hey.” Sam nodded at him, a smile breaking across his mouth when he saw Dean making a swift escape into the kitchen, two mugs in his hands. Seconds later, the gurgle of the coffee machine met his ears. 

“Mind if I interrupt for a moment?” Sam continued, raising his eyebrows. 

“You weren’t interrupting anything!” Dean called from the kitchen. Both Sam and Castiel chuckled, the latter’s expression warming with amusement. 

“Go ahead,” Castiel said, inclining his head. He moved to sit at the table, pulling out a chair and folding his hands on the wood in front of him. 

Sam sat down opposite, nudging his chair in again so he could cross his arms comfortably. He waited until Dean came back, balancing three steaming mugs of coffee in his hands; he put them down on the table before dragging a chair around, sitting between Sam and Castiel at the end of the table. 

“So what’s up?” Dean asked, raising his mug to blow on the surface of the coffee. 

Sam cradled his own cup in his hands, warming his palms from the ceramic. “Kevin’s made a breakthrough with reversing the spell on Heaven.” 

Castiel inhaled sharply through his nostrils, blue eyes fixing on Sam’s face, while Dean’s knuckles whitened slightly as he gripped his mug tighter. Sam just continued, unsurprised by their reactions. 

“He’s discovered a couple of the components that are needed for the spell,” he said, “but we both think there’s at least one more, since the original one used three, although there could be more than that. We won’t know until Kevin can work past the rest of it.” 

“The first spell was designed to be a sacrifice,” Castiel murmured, brow crinkling. “It stands to reason that this would be the same.” 

Dean put his coffee down firmly, the liquid inside threatening to spill over the sides for a moment because of his careless treatment of it. His hands flattened on the table instead as he leaned towards his brother, nodding at him. “Go on, don’t keep us in suspense. What are they?” 

A smile flickered on Sam’s lips for a moment before disappearing again. “So far, Kevin’s found it’s the Soul of the One Fallen and the Blood of the One Fallen For. I’ve got a couple of theories here, but either way I’m pretty sure the soul part applies to you, Cas.” 

Castiel gave a sad little smile. “Of course.” 

One of Dean’s hands rested over the other, the one underneath a fist. His shoulders had hunched inwards slightly, warding off whatever worry he was feeling. Sam could read him like a book: he was scared that it would end in the same result for Castiel as it almost had for Sam. 

“What about the blood?” Dean asked. 

Sam shrugged. “I’m not sure there. It could be a few things. It could be the angels because Cas did what he did for the angels – it’s the of the One Fallen _For_ , remember. Maybe it’s humanity. Or, like the Trials were themed around love…” Here Sam felt warmth for his brother, the wish he’d felt earlier when he’d wanted him to have everything his heart desired. “Or maybe it’s you because you and Cas fell for each other.” 

Neither of the other two seemed comfortable with the idea, and Sam would put his money on it being for different reasons. Castiel was uneasy because it would place Dean in danger; Dean was uneasy because Sam was outwardly stating that he and Castiel were a serious thing. 

Their eyes met briefly, and they seemed to have a silent conversation. They conversed in subtle head tilts, little twitches of eyebrows, and blinks. If he really tried, Sam could probably translate for himself, but he busied himself with drinking his coffee while they ‘talked’. The whole point of the conversation being silent was that he wasn’t involved, so he wasn’t going to pry. His gaze wandered, settling on the bookcases he could see in the next room. 

“Does this mean you have a soul now?” Dean eventually broke the quiet with the question, offering a clear invitation to Sam, welcoming him back into the conversation. He took it gladly. 

Castiel shrugged. “It feels like a mixture of a soul and Grace. I was always aware of my Grace and the power of it when I had it, and I can only feel a small trace of it now. It’s not enough to do anything with, unfortunately. I’m assuming that I gained a soul when I fell. That’s usually the rule, although my circumstances were unusual. 

“Currently, all I can do is connect with the minds of the other angels. I have no idea what would happen if I gave up my theoretical soul to reopen Heaven.” 

“If you don’t know, there’s no way you can just go for it,” Dean said firmly. His tone left no room for argument; Sam could see the familiar lines of worry in his brother’s face, forcing him into the need to protect his family. It wasn’t difficult to decipher his thought process over this. 

He’d only just gained Castiel. It was a risk that he’d taken, because Dean feared losing those that he loved the most, and to leave himself vulnerable by entering a romantic relationship with Castiel was a difficult choice to make. What if he lost him? He’d be left heartbroken. Dean had lost him before and knew how it felt, so he undoubtedly didn’t want to feel that pain again. 

Sam knew that Dean had been scared of abandonment for years. Maybe it was caused by his announcement that he was leaving to study law, maybe it had started sooner than that because of John. Maybe it was a combination of the two. Either way, it had left Dean scared to truly open up to anyone who wasn’t Sam. 

Castiel was rare. Sam would even go so far as to guess that Dean had wanted what he had now long before the angels fell, but had been too scared to open up. Perhaps the constant close proximity had changed his mind. 

Castiel reached out, placing his hand over both of Dean’s and squeezing gently. “Dean, there are angels out there that are stranded because of me. I have to help them, and if it means giving up my soul-” 

“We’ll find another way,” Dean interrupted quickly. “There’s gotta be a way that won’t leave you soulless. We’ll make sure that you’re still you when this is over. What about your Grace?” 

“That’s most likely powering Metatron’s spell – in Heaven.” Castiel tilted his head towards Dean, a sad yet affectionate lilt to his features. “We can’t possibly get hold of it without encountering the other angels. Unless someone is feeling particularly generous, I won’t be getting that back.” 

“They’ll feel more generous when I’ve got an angel blade to their leader’s neck.” 

“Dean-” 

He slid one hand out from under Castiel’s, placing it on his forearm. “Cas,” Dean said softly, “we’re gonna do this, whatever it takes, because you’re crazy and wanna help those assholes. But we’re not gonna let you down or let you go. We need you here.” 

After a pause, Castiel gave a small nod. Dean relaxed again, the tight ball of his hand under Castiel’s relaxing. 

“I’m gonna go let Kevin know we want to know more about the soul part,” Sam said quietly. He took his coffee with him as he made his escape, trying to reclaim his good mood from earlier with it. He couldn’t help feeling guilty for destroying such a sweet moment between the other two, even though what he’d told them was essential information. 

With a sigh, Sam put himself back in the mind of a hunter, not a brother. He’d tell Dean and Castiel things that they needed to know, and wouldn’t worry if he’d ruined a moment because of it. They’d been fortunate enough to rest, but now the war was closing in on them once more. 

* * *

As Sam left, Dean shifted his chair closer to Castiel’s, moving it around the corner of the table so they were side by side. The hand on his forearm slid down to rest over Castiel’s, his thumb stroking over his skin. Castiel turned his hand over to return the hold without question. 

Dean had always known that he was a sucker for affectionate touches, and his new relationship with Castiel was proving that right. At every opportunity, he found himself reaching out to touch him somehow, whether it was a quick squeeze of hands or a skim of a palm on a shoulder as he passed. 

The best part was that Castiel didn’t mind it. He welcomed it, and Dean had been pleasantly surprised when it was Castiel that had cornered him for a kiss earlier. Those were always great; they were sometimes little pecks, sometimes lingering touches, and sometimes fumbling ones that missed mouths and ended up with chuckles instead. 

“What are you so afraid of, Dean?” Castiel asked, shattering Dean’s thoughts. 

He shifted in his seat, eyes dropping to their hands and staying there. Dean kind of liked that they could be dumb and cutesy and hold hands like infatuated teenagers. 

“We don’t know what could happen at the end of this,” Dean said eventually. “And like you said, you don’t know what’s goin’ on soul-wise for you specifically. I just… I don’t like this. I didn’t like it before, and I don’t like it now.” 

Looking pained, he added, “You’re willing to sacrifice yourself for bad people. The angels aren’t good, Cas.” He held up a finger, interrupting him before he could speak. “But I get it. They’re you’re family. I’ve done stupid things before for my family, so just because I don’t like it doesn’t mean I don’t get it.” 

A smile tugged on Castiel’s lips. “I admire your loyalty and your love,” he said. “You’re a good man. I feel fortunate to count myself as your family when I’m no longer welcome among my own. Your dedication here reminds me of you being willing to leave the gates of Hell open to save Sam.” 

Dean’s expression turned bashful, and he shrugged. “He’s my brother,” he stated simply. “Kevin’s… I dunno, he’s like a nephew or something.” Even though the word ‘son’ had floated across his tongue, Dean didn’t think it would be entirely accurate; Kevin wasn’t that much younger than him, really. “And you… you’re you, Cas.” 

There was no word for what Castiel was. Boyfriend was too childish, partner was too _clingy_. They were just Dean-and-Castiel rather than Dean and Castiel. 

Dean squeezed his hand a little, continuing. “I’d do anything to protect you guys, and that includes sacrificing the rest of the world, ‘cause I’m a selfish bastard who wants his family to stay. I’d die to protect you. I have done before.” 

“I can’t allow you to do that this time.” Castiel’s shoulders rose and fell slightly in a tiny shrug, a mere ghost of one. “I need to put right the wrongs I’ve caused. Unlike you, I won’t be happy to leave the mess, even though I do care about you all. These are my mistakes, and they must be corrected before I can be truly at ease.” 

His tongue darted out to dampen his lips, eyebrows drawing together in concern. “I need you to respect my decision, Dean, even if it means giving up my soul for my siblings. I don’t know what will happen to me, but I have to do it, and I need you to support me. It will be difficult enough to do this without you trying to stop me one way or another.” 

Dean growled and lifted a hand to comb it through his hair, leaving the short strands bristling every which way like an angry bird’s feathers. “Fine. But I hope you know that I don’t like this at all.” 

The legs of Castiel’s chair squeaked as he moved closer, the edges of their seats bumping together. He pressed his side to Dean’s comfortingly, releasing his hand so he could wind his arm around his waist instead. “I’m well aware,” he assured him, planting a peck of a kiss on his cheek. 

Quietly, so quietly that Dean half hoped Castiel didn’t hear, he murmured, “I don’t wanna lose you.” 

Castiel’s other arm came around him, pulling him into a hug. Dean sagged against him, melting into Castiel’s side gratefully. After a moment, he twisted so he could return it, burying his face into his shoulder in the process and inhaling his unique scent. 

Dean wanted to stay right here. Doing that would mean he’d get to keep Castiel here, where he belonged. 

* * *

When Crowley woke, his face was planted in soil, the little grains of it getting into his nostrils and between his lips. He could taste the dirt on his tongue, which was dry from a lack of water. 

Crowley despised that he had to rely on food and water like a human, but he had to admit that it was useful to gauge the passage of time. He could tell, for example, that several hours might have gone by without his notice, given that his mouth was dry and his stomach ached slightly from hunger. 

The fact that he’d been moved – signalled by the dirt – was worrying. If there had been the tiles of the diner’s floor beneath his cheek, he would have simply sat up, brushed himself down, and gone on his merry way, after checking the area, of course. This, however, meant that his captors were still around somewhere. 

Even as the thought went through his mind, footsteps sounded, moving past him lightly. 

He didn’t dare to open his eyes fully, fearing that he’d alert them to the fact that he was awake. Instead, Crowley peeked through his lashes, trying to gain some awareness of his surroundings. 

He appeared to be in a forest. No birds or animals made themselves known in the face of more dangerous predators; demons prowled, circling as they guarded his apparently unconscious body in the centre of a small space between trees. As far as he could see, there was no ending to the forest. It simply continued, leading him to believe that he was deep inside it. Running would be foolish and would only end up with him receiving further injury. Crowley knew how these games worked; he had played them himself many times. He just needed to work out the catch. There was, in his experience, always a catch, much to his disappointment. 

He had no tools to speak of to fight the demons. No branches were in reach that he could try to use, and he suspected that they were walking in a total ring around him, leaving him no space to find a window. 

There was only one way to test that theory. 

Crowley rolled over onto his side, spitting the dirt out of his mouth to clear it, but he could still feel the taste rolling around on his tongue. There was no doubt in his mind that the demons had heard him. He shrugged the matter off for now, turning to rest on his back to assess the damage that had been done to him on his travels. 

It was surprisingly little. The back of his head was tender where it had been hit – by what, he didn’t know – and he had a few bumps and bruises, but it was nothing that he couldn’t ignore. Grimacing, Crowley touched where the source of the stinging in his head was. His hand came away wet. 

Footsteps that were more deliberately placed than those of the demons’ met his ears. Crowley froze, his bloodied hand falling to rest on the ground as he listened. The demons stopped as well, heads cocking like those of birds as they too paid attention. 

Out of the gloom, an unmistakable figure made herself known. She stalked towards the circle of demons. As she stepped between two of them and saw Crowley sitting up, she smiled. It stretched her lips wide in a grin of pure glee. 

_Bugger._

Abaddon had tied her hair back in a bun to keep it from straying into her face. She wore the same heavy boots, the same fitted leather jacket. Her lips were painted ruby red around her smile. 

“Abaddon,” Crowley greeted, inclining his head. “You look lovely, my dear. It’s a shame that we met again under such ter-” 

Crowley’s voice choked off into nothing as his collar was pulled tight around his throat. Abaddon’s nails dug into the front of his shirt, wrist twisting so he could barely inhale and exhale. The knuckles of her hand clicked as she curled her fingers into a fist. 

_No talking, then,_ Crowley thought, disappointed that he didn’t have the breath to fall back on his one remaining weapon: sarcasm. 

She pulled him upwards, using her leverage to bring him onto his feet. Abaddon’s eyes glittered with pleasure as she lifted one finger to drag the nail slowly, almost seductively across his chin. “I have a job for you. But first, we’re gonna have a little fun.”


	13. Honey, I'm Home!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs for this chapter:
> 
> Let's Kill Tonight - Panic! at the Disco

Sam, Dean, and Castiel were in the process of finishing up a hunt, their prey being a vampire nest this time. It was a small one, easily manageable with the team of three people that they had on hand to take care of the situation.

The home of the creatures was a warehouse, open and easy to protect should a smaller group of enemies attack. They’d been caught off guard, however; they’d had the right idea with their nest, but they were a young group, and therefore their inexperience was their fatal flaw. It made them easy pickings for the hunters. 

Dean neatly sliced the head off of the last vampire near him, and as the body and skull fell to the ground with a thump, he raised his arm to wipe the sweat from his brow. Panting, he turned to check on the other two, muscles already tensing again in case he needed to jump back into battle to help them. 

First, he spotted Sam, who was looking better than ever. His brother looked like a force to be reckoned with as he grasped the hair of a vampire from behind and slid his knife across her throat, a snarl on his lips. His old strength seemed to have returned, putting him on top form. Dean didn’t really want to examine the miracle of that, even if he was curious about Sam’s recovery. As long as no problems came up, it was a mystery he was content to leave. 

Dean moved his gaze on, sweeping the warehouse until he saw Castiel. 

He was taking on the two remaining vampires with ease, skipping out of one’s reach as he turned to lop the head off of the other. It was like Castiel and the vampires knew the steps and had rehearsed them until they were perfected so they could create this deadly dance. 

Dean allowed a smile to grace his lips as he admired Castiel’s skill and his form – now that he was allowed to look, Dean found his eyes lingering on Castiel more often; he was an attractive guy, after all. Castiel finished the battle with one last smooth thrust of his blade through the vampire’s neck. It tumbled to the ground, falling into a heap. 

Castiel stood still for a moment afterwards, breathing heavily as he recovered from the physical exertion. Even from across the room, Dean could see that Castiel’s cheeks were flushed, and he then had to distract himself with beginning the cleanup so he didn’t get caught up in other thoughts that involved Castiel out of breath and pink-cheeked. 

By the time they’d assembled a pile of the bodies outside in a mass grave, ready to burn, Dean had almost forgotten all about it. There was a job to be done, and Castiel hadn’t been as much of a distraction before. Dean was more than capable of controlling himself, he thought firmly during the collection of the corpses. 

The fire – lit by Sam – gave them light and warmth in the chilly day. Dean started to draw a little closer to the flames, seeking their heat, when a certain someone sidled up to him and pressed their arms together. When Dean looked up with a raised eyebrow, Castiel simply shrugged and said, “You looked cold. I told you that you should’ve brought a better coat.” 

“My jacket’s fine,” Dean replied defensively, drawing the unzipped middle closer to himself with a growl. “At least mine isn’t gonna get me killed someday ‘cause some monster yanked the end of it. Seriously, dude, your trench is a health hazard.” 

“I’ve been fighting with it on for years already, and I’m warm.” Castiel actually had a smug smile on his lips. Dean scowled, even as he felt Castiel slide his fingers between his. 

“You guys argue like an old married couple already,” Sam interrupted, coming up on Dean’s other side with his hands in his pockets and a grin on his lips. “I feel like a little kid watching my parents bicker.” 

“Shut up or go to your room, Sammy.” Dean sniffed, lifting his free hand to rub at his nose, which smarted from the cold. “Dunno about you guys, but I’m hungry. Who’s up for burgers?” 

When noises of agreement came from both sides, they packed up and began to drive to the nearest diner for a celebratory dinner. However, they’d barely made it a few miles before Sam’s phone rang. Dean didn’t know how he heard it over the music that had been playing and Dean’s singing from his improved mood – maybe he’d felt it vibrate. Dean had been into it partly because it was fun to sing along, but also because he’d spotted Castiel’s small smile in the rear view mirror. Sam gave him a nod of thanks when it became background sound. 

There was a familiar buzz of a voice on the other end, and it was confirmed by Sam’s greeting of, “Hey, Garth!” 

Minutes of silence passed on this side then, during which Dean tried to see how high he could inch the volume of the music. Sam batted his hand to the side when it got to voice level. 

“Tell us what’s happening, asshole,” Dean growled, shooting a scowl over at him. 

“Garth’s been tipped off about some demon activity,” Sam finally said, covering the mouthpiece of his phone. 

“How much?” 

Sam held up his finger as he returned the phone to his cheek, relaying the question. Dean sighed, slumping in his seat as the Impala cruised along the mostly-empty road. “We’ve just come off a case,” he whined quietly. 

Garth had taken being the new Bobby far too seriously, in Dean’s opinion. The way he’d assembled the network made him the unchallenged nerve centre of the hunting community, which came with pros and cons of equal amounts. He seemed to know where each hunter was at each moment, which was eerie in the extreme – unless it was Sam, Dean, or Castiel and they were at the bunker, which was apparently out of his reach. 

Dean had assumed that Garth was pretty important to giving out information, but it wasn’t until he’d emailed Dean once requesting a whole load of obscure knowledge that he’d had to root around in their extensive library for that he really realised how true that was. It had happened more times than Dean cared to remember, sometimes at indecent times in the night, too. 

“It’s not looking too good,” Sam said, directing the words at Dean and Castiel, phone lowered again. “We should be careful about heading in, because apparently it’s an entire village that’s been possessed, or at least most of one. Garth recommends that we take a quick break first; it doesn’t look like anything’s gonna happen anytime soon. It’s quite for now; he’s got his eye on it.” 

Sam then tried to suppress a smile, his lips twitching at the corners, even as he frowned at the same time. Dean caught the look and narrowed his eyes. “What else?” 

“The informant asked for us specifically, called us ‘moose’ and ‘squirrel’.” He huffed a soft laugh. “How many people do we know that call us those names?” 

Dean cast a wary glance over. “You think Crowley’s behind this?” 

“Impossible.” Castiel leaned forward, his face appearing between the Winchesters’ over the seat. “He’s nowhere near powerful enough right now, either in terms of abilities or support. There isn’t a single demon on his side. If anything, it’s a plea for help or an offer of information.” 

“Or a trap,” Dean added. “That’d be a dick move, considering he owes us.” 

“Let’s stop by the bunker first,” Sam suggested. “We need to change out the bags anyway, and we need a break. Let’s tackle the question tomorrow morning.” He then took the decision out of Dean’s hands and brought his phone up again to talk to Garth. 

Falling into bed that night was a relief. A hot shower had done wonders for the knots in the muscles of Dean’s back, and now his comfortable mattress shaped to his form as he settled in. Add Castiel’s warm, sleepy form curling around his, and Dean was golden. 

Sharing a bed wasn’t something new to their relationship, as it had been necessary when Castiel’s nightmares were more frequent. Which room they slept in changed; sometimes it was Dean’s, sometimes it was Castiel’s. It was the former more often, as Castiel seemed to enjoy the comfort of the mattress just as much as Dean did. 

Castiel curled up at Dean’s back – literally curling. He coiled himself into a little ball, somehow managing to inch his way further across the bed during the night until Dean was forced to either shove him over or turn onto his side and just hug him. As soppy as it was, he’d never been happier to share a bed. 

* * *

The village was eerily quiet. The streets looked grey and old, like they hadn’t seen a person in centuries. The windows of some shops were shattered; the holes had jagged pieces still at the edges, almost like it had been punched by a great force. Other than these signs, the village appeared almost normal. 

Warily, Dean parked the Impala in a wide section of road, making it easy if they needed to make a quick getaway. They armed themselves as they got out and began a slow walk down the centre of the street. Thanks to Garth, the three of them had been aware that things wouldn’t be pretty, but for a village to reach such a state just because of some demons was enough to make Dean’s stomach turn. 

However, despite their cautious movements, nothing came to attack them. There was no sign of anything or anyone. It was just empty. 

The stench of sulfur was strong in the air, clogging up Dean’s senses to keep him from smelling anything else that could be useful. Not even the breeze could shift the scent. He was tempted to hold his jacket’s sleeve up to his nose instead so he’d smell gunpowder and motor oil instead, but he refrained. 

A crackle alerted them; Dean swung around, gun muzzle first, to point it in the direction of the sound of dry grass underfoot. The strength of the sulfur smell didn’t change, even when a familiar face staggered around the corner of a house. 

It was Crowley, and he wasn’t in good shape. He leaned against the porch heavily, one arm wrapped around his centre to protect his middle. His right eye was bruised and there was dried blood around his lips, but Dean couldn’t tell whether that was from biting them or other, internal injuries. Crowley lurched, sliding on the wall before he caught himself with his shoulder. 

Somehow, he still managed to smirk at them. Dean had to admire that. 

“I see you got my message,” Crowley said, jerking his chin towards them. “You took your time getting here, boys.” 

“You’re not exactly our biggest friend,” Dean replied. He was pleased to find that neither Sam nor Castiel had lowered their weapons when he glanced to either side; as weak as Crowley appeared to be, he could still easily play them. They’d learned from their past mistakes. “What happened to you?” 

“Abaddon is what happened.” He sniffed, standing a little straighter. “The girl could use a little finesse in her torture methods and her persuasion technique. It’s all…” Crowley waved a hand, nose wrinkling in distaste. “‘Obey me or I’ll hurt you’; it gets very old very fast. There’s no compromise or quid pro quo.” 

“How did you get away?” Castiel asked. There was genuine curiosity in his tone, as well as suspicion. 

“I didn’t,” Crowley stated simply. “I played her. Demons are selfish creatures by nature, and when you’re the King of Hell, you can promise them things and… sway them a little. All you have to do is promise them a virgin and a few entrails, and they’ll do whatever you want. For a bit extra, they’ll even persuade Abaddon to let you go so you can draw in the Winchesters.” 

“So we’re bait. Awesome.” 

Crowley raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t say I was finished, squirrel.” He cleared his throat before continuing. “Now, I think it’s time I repaid my debt to you. Abaddon’s in the woods. Her cronies are currently searching for me, but when they pick up your scents they’re not going to let go. You can go after them or run, I don’t care so long as I can go back to minding my own business.” 

“Fine.” Sam’s footsteps shifted across the dry ground, scraping as he widened his stance, ready to fire if he had to. Dean recognised the sound. “But no funny business. Just leave.” 

“Cross my heart,” Crowley promised. 

Dean jerked his gun towards the side, in the direction of the edge of town. “Get goin’ then.” 

Crowley pushed off from the wall, grunting as he staggered and began a slow walk. “Someday, we’ll actually be back on the right sides,” he assured them. “But for now, I’ve done my part, so I’ll take my leave.” 

Dean, Sam, and Castiel watched him go, even as their wariness slipped slightly. As helpless as Crowley was physically, his mental acuity hadn’t faltered; he was as quick-witted as ever, able to spin the odds in his favour even when they were stacked against him. With a few words, he’d gained himself a small following and a ticket out. 

Even if he didn’t officially hold the title, he was still clearly the King of Hell. 

* * *

Now more prepared, the three continued. They set off in the direction that Crowley had pointed them in while walking in a line; Dean at the front, Sam at the back, and Castiel in the middle. It was something they fell into naturally. 

Castiel was mildly surprised that there hadn’t been more questioning over Crowley’s words, but then again, he supposed that you could always trust a dishonest person to be dishonest – Crowley had demonstrated that in sneaking around Abaddon with ease. 

As they stepped into the wooded area, the stench of sulfur worsened. Castiel parted his lips and breathed through his mouth instead. It was all as silent as the village; not even the birds sang, as they were frightened away by the creatures that haunted their territory. The ground was soft under their feet, littered with leaves from the cooling weather. They trod carefully, minding the twigs that could snap with just a little pressure. 

There was very little warning for the appearance of the demons. The breeze shifted, carrying a stronger whiff of sulfur, and then shapes loomed out of the trees, stalking towards them. 

Castiel and Sam were the first to see. They targeted the latter, rushing him, forcing him to stop walking when one darted between him and Castiel. Shots began ringing out as Sam fired at them. 

Dean stopped, swinging around, gun raised. He fell into pace beside Castiel as they jogged back to the ring around Sam hurriedly. The demons were acting like a pack of dogs, circling Sam as if he was their prey. Some bodies were already fallen to his bullets or knife, but it hadn’t made much of a mark on the entire group. 

Castiel lost sight of Dean as he started to chip off demons to lighten Sam’s load. He couldn’t quite make it through the fray to Sam, unfortunately, which left him to work from the inside out. 

A thud and a growled, “Shit,” caught Castiel’s attention. 

He turned to find that Abaddon had Dean against a tree, her palm at his throat. There was a pained expression on his face; was she hurting him? As he watched, she plucked his gun from his grip and dropped it, and a smile curled across her lips. When a demon clawed at his sleeve, ripping the material, Castiel was forced back into battle, and his glimpses of the exchange between Dean and Abaddon became mere snatches. 

“Hello, Dean,” she purred. Her fingers flexed, nails pressing into the exposed skin of his neck. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” 

“It’s been the best break I’ve had,” Dean replied, appearing unconcerned. Castiel detected his subtle shifting as he tried to regain some amount of footing, enough that he might be able to begin to fight back. 

Abaddon’s other hand rose, fingers twisting into Dean’s hair. “You didn’t miss me? I’m hurt. I thought we had something special.” 

“Sorry, someone else beat you to it.” 

Castiel managed to glance over again when there was a break in the demons. Dean was already watching him; he moved his gaze very obviously to Sam before he gave his attention back to Abaddon. Castiel got the message loud and clear: _stop getting distracted and help Sam._

Dean could handle himself easily. He wasn’t in any immediate danger, unlike Sam, so Castiel swivelled and dived into the fray. 

The lessened number of demons made it easy to push through them to reach the centre, where Sam was still in action. He looked over as Castiel forged his way through the masses, pausing with the demon knife raised. The gun was gone, tossed away, either empty or yanked out of his hand by a demon. He gave Castiel a quick nod of greeting. Castiel put his back to Sam’s and surveyed the situation. 

The demons had created a definite circle around them, like a ring one might watch a pair of animals scrabble in. If they conversed, it was quietly and little more than a couple of words and a gesture of the head to direct the other towards a gap in the wall that needed filling. 

They were hanging back now that Sam was trapped. It wasn’t often that they darted forwards to attack, and every time they met Sam’s knife or Castiel’s bullets, either dying with a yell and a fizz of electricity or falling back with a howl of pain as they burned from the inside out. 

“What are they doing?” Castiel muttered. 

“I don’t know,” Sam admitted. They turned on the spot, moving in time. _Step, step, step, stop._ “I don’t get it, normally they’re ruthless-” 

When his voice cut off, Castiel looked over his shoulder, concern growing in his chest. Had the demons decided to prove them wrong and simply attacked Sam? No, he was physically fine. Castiel couldn’t see or smell any blood. 

Instead, Sam was frozen, eyes wide as he watched something over the shoulders of the demons. His mouth opened and closed, lips forming silent words. His muscles were tense, shoulders hunched slightly. If Sam had had wings, Castiel imagined they would have curved to his back and lifted protectively. Perhaps the feathers would have even bristled to make his already large frame seem even more imposing. 

Castiel moved up to his side, leaning over so he could follow Sam’s eyesight to see what it was that had caught his attention. He inhaled sharply when he saw what it was. 

Adam. 

Or, at least, it was a demon wearing the body of Adam. Even from here, Castiel could see the faint pulse of black smoke writhing under his skin and the ghostly image of a creature that was so clearly _not human_ over his face; whatever remained of his Grace recognised that this creature was a newly turned demon, and it was hungry for violence. 

It was very clearly not Adam, even if it wore his skin and had the faint taste of his soul underneath the twisted blackness. It contained Adam’s memories, but there was no lingering fondness for his brothers – if there had been any anyway. 

Castiel’s suspicions were confirmed when he blinked and his eyes turned black. A grin stretched his lips as he stalked forwards, fingers flared like they were the claws of a cat. As he drew close enough to be at the shoulders of his comrades, Adam quietly but clearly said, “Get the angel away from him.” 

All hell broke loose. 

Finally, the demons surged, becoming one roaring crowd as they streamed towards Castiel. He fired shot after shot, flooring some from precisely placed bullets and incapacitating others. It thinned out the mass, but it wasn’t enough to stop them from gaining ground on him, forcing him to retreat from Sam’s side. 

“Sam!” Castiel yelled. His friend was still, unmoving as he watched his brother approach. There was no response to Castiel’s cry. 

His shirt was further torn, as these demons had acquired weapons somewhere along the line; as good as the gun was for keeping them at arm’s length, it was difficult to use when they came in close. He made a mental note to keep an angel blade on him during all hunts from now on. 

Castiel realised partway through that this was just to distract him from getting rid of Adam or helping Dean. These demons had separated him from his friends so the other two could do whatever it was that they wanted and, in a similar tactic from before, they weren’t trying to kill him yet. Perhaps Abaddon was even a decoy as well. 

Maybe the entire point of this was to shock Sam to his core. If it was, they had succeeded. 

Between flashes of blades and grins, Castiel saw Adam standing before Sam. His mouth was moving, but he couldn’t hear the words; they were drowned out by the whoops of delight from the demons and the beginning of Castiel’s exorcism. 

Those cries became snarls as they caught onto what he was doing, and it was less of a game of cat and mouse and more like a pack of wolves hunting a deer again. Castiel wasn’t a gentle doe, however, not anymore; he was a stag, tall and powerful. 

As they drew closer, Castiel ran out of bullets. He tossed the gun aside carelessly and backed towards Sam, wondering if he could either finish the exorcism or grab the knife from his frozen fingers. Castiel had always felt more comfortable using a blade anyway. 

Fortunately, as he began to walk on familiar ground again, he reached the last line of Latin. The demons howled as they burst out of the mouths of their hosts, forming a great black cloud overhead as they circled. Castiel heard a shriek of anger from further away – Abaddon, perhaps? He hoped she wouldn’t punish Dean for what he’d done. 

In the aftermath, Castiel collected his gun and tucked it into the waistband of his jeans, panting as he caught his breath again. Over the thunder of his heartbeat in his ears, Castiel finally heard what was being said by Adam. 

“… dragged me down with you,” the boy hissed. “I never wanted to be a part of this, and you knew that, but you hauled me down to Hell with you anyway.” 

Sam’s reply was the small, chastised whisper of a child. “I’m sorry.” 

“Sorry doesn’t cut it!” 

Castiel’s blood began to boil. He looked up, fingers twitching with the need to be wrapped around the hilt of a knife. Adam had seized Sam’s shirtfront and pulled him in, forcing him to stoop awkwardly to accommodate the difference in height. 

Sam looked broken. His face was closed off, pale and almost sickly looking as he was made to look Adam in the eye. His body was limp but for the curl of his fingers around the demon knife; the gentle sway of his stance made Castiel wonder if he was actually going to fall over. 

This was truly a wicked move on Abaddon’s part. Making Sam face the fact that his actions had turned one of his brothers into a demon was beyond cruel. It would layer Sam with guilt that it would be difficult to pull him out of. It was almost as bad as breaking the wall that had protected his mind from memories of the Cage. It could even have the same result; would reminding Sam of an innocent’s situation bring back the hallucinations and the illness? 

Castiel began to surge forwards, intending to snatch the knife and plunge it into Adam’s black heart, but the boy’s arm snapped up, palm outstretched, flinging Castiel away from the two of them. He landed awkwardly on his feet only to topple seconds later, tumbling into a pile that pulled his ankle at such an angle that bolts of pain shot through it. He hissed in pain. 

“I never wanted to be part of this,” Adam snarled, his smaller frame almost shaking with the force of his emotion. He laughed a broken sound. “Now look at me. I’m a _demon._ It should be you in my place, Sam.” 

Castiel seized the trunk of a tree, hauling himself upright. He tentatively put weight on his foot, but it buckled. 

Adam made a disgusted sound and pushed Sam away from him. He stumbled, staggered, and eventually stayed upright. “Don’t think I’m gonna forget what you did,” he added. “This is just the beginning.” With a last hateful glare, Adam turned and jogged away, leaving the bodies of his fallen comrades, even those that were still stirring. 

Castiel finally stood on one leg as the demon ran, the other raised so it didn’t have to provide support it couldn’t give. He wished he could follow to neatly solve this before it became a problem. Unfortunately, that just wasn’t feasible. “Sam,” he said firmly, “come here.” 

No response. 

“ _Sam_ , I need your help.” 

That was enough to make him shift. Sam blinked rapidly, exhaling shakily. His eyes darted here and there before settling on Castiel with his injury; comprehension dawned seconds later, and he came over, winding an arm around Castiel to support him. 

Together, they used a hand each to reload the gun, and then they made their hobbling, hopping way back to Dean. 

* * *

Abaddon pressed on Dean’s chest a little harder as the sounds of a fight broke out. He thought that her smile turned just that little bit more terrifying as her gaze trailed down his neck, as if she could see inside him with just a look. For all he knew about demons, that was possible. 

However, her eyes halted over his heart. The hand drifted with it, dragging the cloth of his shirt aside to bare the edges of his tattoo. 

“I’d like to have more Winchesters on my side, you know,” Abaddon said conversationally, her grip on his hair tightening. “Did you know that I rescued poor little Adam from the Cage? He needed family, so I provided. And you know what?” 

Dean didn’t want to _know what_. His stomach was churning with guilt over Adam already, making him feel sick. He had no snarky comeback, which seemed to disappoint Abaddon. 

She leaned in, putting her lips to his ear. “I’m going to drag Sam back to Hell as a gift for Lucifer’s return,” she murmured. 

Dean stowed away the ‘return’ part for future reference, but his revulsion over what she’d said took precedence. “You’re not gonna get away with jack shit,” Dean snarled, struggling properly for the first time. He tried to rip his hair from her grasp, scalp prickling as the strands were pulled. Oily power crawled over his skin, holding him in place better than any physical grip could. Silence had fallen; the fight was over. 

“And after that, I’m gonna burn off that tattoo and give myself a shiny new vessel,” Abaddon purred. “Imagine what we could accomplish together, Dean. You were one of Alastair’s best…” 

_Screaming, hellfire, and blood_. Dean couldn’t go back there. He wouldn’t allow it. 

Just as his lips twitched into a snarl to deliver his reply to that offer, a gunshot rang out, making Abaddon jerk. Blood bloomed like a flower on her shirt as she staggered back with a hiss of frustration, the force that had been holding Dean in place snapping away. 

It was Castiel that had come to rescue him. He was leaning heavily on Sam, one foot raised off of the ground like a cat would stand after hurting a paw. His brother looked pale and shaken but determined. 

Dean shoved away the errant thought of Castiel being his knight in shining armour again. It was not the time or place for anything like that at all. 

Abaddon, despite her wounds, grinned. She plucked at the holes in her shirt, sticky with her blood. “I didn’t like this shirt anyway,” she commented. Her disappearance was swift and instant, vanishing as quickly as Crowley used to. 

Dean slid down the trunk of the tree slightly, exhaling in relief. His gaze settled on the other two. “You guys okay?” 

Sam just swallowed and looked away. Dean saw the hand Castiel had on his brother’s shoulder tighten for reassurance. Castiel let the hand that held the gun lower to his side, gesturing at his leg before it settled. “I fell and hurt my ankle. It won’t support me now.” 

Dean pushed off of the tree and went to kneel in front of him, ignoring a twig that poked into his calf. He placed gentle hands on Castiel’s ankle, tracing the swelling that had already come up. “Sprained,” he informed him. “We’re gonna have to bind that and you’ve gotta stay off it for a while.” 

“I need to-” Sam cut himself off with a shiver. He ducked out from under Castiel’s arm, turning sharply to walk away. “I need to go back to the car. I’ll see you there.” 

Castiel swayed dangerously; Dean bounced up to replace Sam, hooking his arm around Castiel’s middle. Sam had already disappeared out of the woods and back into the village, but Dean could only go slowly, since Castiel was incapable of anything faster than a hop. 

“What happened, Cas?” Dean asked softly. 

Castiel leaned on Dean more, although this wasn’t in support for himself – it was for Dean for the answer he was about to give. “Adam,” he said grimly. “He… he said things to Sam. He blames him for being pulled into the Cage.” 

Dean’s stomach dropped. “Damn it…” 

“Don’t you dare blame yourself, too,” Castiel said sharply. “It’s not your fault, and it’s not Sam’s either. The circumstances surrounding Adam were beyond your control; that applies to both of you.” 

Castiel’s words made sense, but it was easier said than done. 

* * *

The drive back was a silent affair. Dean bound Castiel’s ankle with a bandage before they started, and told him to rest it on the back of the front bench seat so it was elevated. 

Dean spent the time worrying over what Sam must’ve been feeling and what Abaddon had meant by ‘Lucifer’s return’. 

Castiel was concerned enough over the two Winchesters’ reaction to Adam’s reappearance to distract himself from the throb of his ankle. 

Sam wallowed in guilt. He felt horrified and sickened that his little brother had been coaxed into wanting revenge for something that had been essential for stopping the apocalypse. 

Then again, demons didn’t care about bigger things like that, did they? All that mattered to them was saving their own necks. Crowley had proved that.


	14. Greased Lightnin'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs for this chapter:
> 
> Grease Lightning - Grease Soundtrack

The drive home was too long and too quiet for Dean’s taste. The only sound was the familiar, comforting purr of the Impala’s engine as she rolled along the road; Dean hadn’t even turned on the radio to fill the void with one of his other security blankets. Music helped when everything seemed to be going to shit - or, at least, that was how it was for him. He didn’t think it was the same for Sam. Even Castiel was quiet, respectfully so.

Castiel’s foot hadn’t moved from where Dean had put it on the seat. If Dean glanced to the side enough, he could see the white of the bindings around the swelling just out of the corners of his eyes. But, then again, he was having enough trouble keeping his worried gaze off of Sam without adding Castiel to his concern, so Dean forced himself to remain looking forwards. Crashing was really not something he ever wanted to experience again. 

It was worrying to realise that they were, once again, in differing states of broken. Castiel was injured and would be laid up for a week at the very least (Dean wanted longer, but he didn’t know if they could afford to spend that time doing nothing; maybe Castiel could be on research duty for the duration of his recovery). Sam, on the other hand, seemed to still be processing the fact that their brother was around and demonic. He’d barely moved, sitting so still that it was almost at Castiel’s level of motionlessness; every so often he breathed a little sharply, as if in surprise at a thought, but didn’t say a single thing. 

It made Dean feel cold. Lonely, even. 

He shook that thought off before it could take. It was stupid, ridiculous; Sam was _right there_ , and so was Castiel. Sam’s silence didn’t mean that he was being pushed away. 

Returning to the bunker was a relief. The Impala’s growl was nearly too loud in the bunker’s garage - a room Dean had stumbled across during his first exploration of their new home. It was large enough that it could comfortably house the Impala and another car if they really needed it, not counting the older models that seemed to be permanently parked there - unfortunately, he hadn’t yet had a chance to get his hands on the engines and see if they were salvageable. He itched to have the time to find his place in this room, to see if he could fix up these old vehicles in case they needed backups or spares. 

There was even a motorbike nearer the garage door that just needed a bit of a clean-up. Dean had been aching to try it out, maybe even see if Castiel would be interested in riding it. Trying it for himself was one thing, but convincing Castiel to go with the whole leather jacket and ruffled hair deal… 

_Focus._ He needed to focus. There were more important things than admiring the image in his head, even if it was a pretty damn good one. 

Before the Impala was even turned off, Sam was clambering out, unfolding his long legs so he could make his escape. With a few quick steps, he made it past the hood and halfway towards the stairs that led back to the main area of the bunker, and all before Dean had really processed what had happened. 

He didn’t need Castiel’s quiet prompt - “Go after him, Dean.” - but he appreciated that Castiel didn’t mind him leaving him behind for a moment to follow Sam. Dean jogged the short distance to the stairs to catch up with his brother before he disappeared into the bowels of the bunker. 

Sam already had his foot on the bottom step when Dean caught the sleeve of his jacket. He half-turned towards Dean, his resigned expression telling him that he’d expected Dean to follow. Silently, angrily, Dean demanded, _What the hell else am I supposed to do?_

“You okay?” he asked when Sam didn’t offer anything other than a raised eyebrow. “What happened back there?” 

Sam smiled sadly, gaze dropping to hover down around his feet. “It’s Adam,” he sighed, scuffing the toe of his boot on the stone step. “He’s topside again and he’s a demon…” He closed his eyes then, lip trembling briefly as he grimaced. “And the kicker is he blames me for it. For being stuck in the Cage, but probably for turning into one of them, too.” 

“Sam-” 

“ _Stop._ ” Sam withdrew another step, eyes opening and fixing on Dean’s, determined. “Don’t try to tell me it’s not my fault, ‘cause it is. This one _is_ on me. I dragged Adam down to the Cage with me to stop Lucifer and Michael, and yeah, it was the only option I had, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have the blame here, Dean. 

“Right now, he’s only after me, and he’s one regular demon.” _Maybe_ , Dean added in his head, but he didn’t say it out loud. Sam seemed to be on a roll here. He probably needed to get all of this out, so Dean let him. He only moved to fold his arms and raise his eyebrows a little. 

“This is my problem, Dean,” Sam continued. “I know you’re gonna want to join in, but… I need to do this, okay? I need to face this stuff, and I need to put Adam to rest properly. I’ll take the demons, you and Cas take the angels.” 

Dean almost protested that shoving the angels back into Heaven wasn’t a two man job, but the words died on his tongue when he remembered what it might cost them: Castiel. Of course Sam would urge Dean to find a way to save his own light at the end of the long, dark tunnel before them. 

What was more, he knew that he couldn’t change Sam’s mind. He knew his brother’s body language better than his thought processes, and right now it painted the picture of determination: gritted teeth, squared shoulders, firmness in his stare. Beneath, there was the tenderness Dean knew that lingered from having old scars torn open, but Sam was a tough guy. He’d pull through. Dean had faith in him. 

That was why he nodded. He knew what was going through Sam’s head. 

It was like he could make up for not being able to close Hell’s gates by solving the problem with Abaddon. Sam knew that Dean was already invested in the angels because of Castiel, which was why he’d passed that duty solely over to them, keeping the demons for himself. 

“You sure?” Dean checked. “All the demons? Abaddon, too? That’s a pretty big ask, Sam.” 

“I just need to find what can kill Abaddon,” Sam replied, shrugging. “It can’t be too difficult, can it? Monsters always have a weakness, they’re not invincible. Even the Leviathan had a weakness. She’ll have one, too.” Sam placed his hand on Dean’s forearm and squeezed. “I’ve got this.” 

He nodded towards the Impala; Dean glanced over to see Castiel still sat there, patiently waiting. “Go and help Cas,” Sam urged. He left him, turning the corner of the stairs with quick, tapping footsteps. 

Dean allowed himself a short moment before he rejoined Castiel. 

From there, it was slow progress up to Dean’s room. They moved awkwardly, Castiel’s arm over his shoulder and Dean’s around his waist, hobbling short little hops as Castiel moved along. It had been an unspoken decision to pick Dean’s room over Castiel’s for the duration of his recovery; the mattress would probably be better for him in the long run, and it was closer to the rest of the bunker. 

Castiel lowered himself onto his side of the bed without difficulty, but sighed in relief when the strain was off of his ankle. He sank back into the pillows, eyes closing briefly from the comfort. Dean bunched up the duvet under his foot, rolling it up so it would still be raised, before he perched on the edge of the bed to inspect his hasty bandaging, which, in hindsight, wasn’t fantastic. 

Carefully, Dean unwrapped it so he could redo it. Castiel quietly hissed between his teeth when it was jostled, but didn’t complain as Dean rewrapped it in a much better figure-of-eight. After a quick jog to the kitchen and back for a bag of ice - placed on Castiel’s ankle with his guidance - Dean was satisfied. 

Castiel then held his arm out from his side, indicating that he wanted the space to be filled. Dean gladly obliged - even going so far as to pretend to grumble, even though they both knew that Dean enjoyed the closeness of a good cuddle - crawling up the bed and flopping down with his face in his shoulder. He smelled like sweat and dirt. 

His hand fell to rest between Dean’s shoulder blades, lightly pressing at the muscles of his back. Dean’s eyes closed as he melted into Castiel’s touch. 

“I heard what you and Sam said.” 

Dean sighed. Next time, he’d have to remember to make sure the Impala’s doors were shut before he tried to have a private conversation. 

“Sometimes,” Castiel continued, “you seem like more of a parent to Sam than a brother, especially when decisions are involved. The fact that you’re letting him make them himself - and trusting him to do so - is a step in the right direction. Sam has been ready for this step for a long time, Dean. You just need to let him. 

“I, on the other hand, am not ready to make my own decisions.” 

“What do you-” 

“Most, if not all, of my actions are evidence for that,” Castiel cut in. Dean was starting to get a little annoyed at being interrupted, but he let it slide again. “Gaining access to Purgatory, trying to become God, trusting Metatron…” He trailed off; Dean felt his soft sigh when Castiel’s chest moved. “Unlike Sam, I have yet to learn how to make the right choice, which isn’t the same as doing something because the ends justify the means.” 

Dean sat up a little, raising his head with a stern glare. “Cas, you did what you did because you thought you were doing the right thing.” 

“And it turned out disastrously for the whole planet multiple times,” he replied simply. There was a look in his friend’s eyes that was tired, resigned. “I want to put things right, Dean, but I need help to do it. My duty is to restore my kind to their statuses as angels, and I’d like your assistance.” 

He couldn’t exactly say no, could he? 

“Course I’ll help you, Cas.” 

* * *

When Dean woke in the morning, he could smell bacon. It immediately set him on alert. 

It wasn’t Castiel, because he was next to him and groaning in pain because he’d rolled over and slept awkwardly on his ankle during the night; it was trapped beneath his other leg. There was a soft thump as he turned over, still grumbling sleepily. It wouldn’t be Sam, because he made healthy shit when he ate breakfast since Dean so often cooked them up what was, in his opinion, a better meal. Kevin was too impatient to hang around and wait for his bacon to be good enough if he was doing the cooking. 

So, unless Sam had spontaneously decided he fancied some good ol’ bacon, who the hell was it? 

As Dean sat up, his foot brushed the now-melted bag of ice. Water sloshed around inside the plastic as he picked it up and stood. “How’re you?” he checked, raising an eyebrow. 

Castiel was a force to be reckoned with in the morning, and today was no exception. He scowled at Dean, drawing the leg with the bum ankle closer to his middle. “In pain,” he replied shortly, before promptly turning over to plonk his face back into his pillow. 

Dean’s lips twitched with the effort of remaining straight. “I’ll get you some more ice,” he promised. 

Castiel just grunted, so he took that as an ‘ _Okay, thank you, Dean_ ’. 

He slipped out of the bedroom, closing the door with a soft click behind him. The bag of water glugged in his hand as he walked, making it difficult to work up any kind of a sneaky entrance to spy on whoever was in his kitchen. His pace slowed as he reached the corner that rounded into the room in question, and he cocked his head to listen. 

There was humming in a woman’s voice. It was to a tune that he knew well, knew by heart, in fact: Led Zeppelin’s _Ramble On_ , one of his favourite songs. He could have picked up the lyrics easily if he hadn’t been trying to hide. 

When he rounded the corner, Dean found an older woman standing at the cooker, shifting a pile of bacon onto a plate. It smelled amazing; Dean’s mouth watered. 

The woman herself was familiar, and yet not at the same time. Dean knew instantly that he recognised her, but it took a good deal of paying attention and pinching himself before he accepted the fact that this was the Impala. 

Her skin was like ebony, smooth and unbroken but for the pale scars Dean could see on the inside of her forearm: _S.W._ and _D.W._ Her hair was short enough to rival Dean’s, sleek and black against her scalp. She wore a shiny leather jacket that stopped halfway down her back and arms; _KAZ 2Y5_ was stitched into the hem of it. Her shorts were greyed and frayed at the edges, and her heavy combat boots thumped on the tiles as she walked around the kitchen. 

When she turned, she didn’t seem surprised to see him in the doorway. She had an angular face, beautiful and sharp. Around her neck was a piece of string with a curled golden feather dangling by the base of her throat, and in the pocket of her jacket was a little toy army soldier. 

“When you’ve finished taking care of your angel, you can have some bacon,” she told him. She flicked a hand between him and the freezer, indicating that he should carry on as normal. “Bring him through to get some grub if he’s hungry, too.” 

Dean stood there in dumb, shocked silence, following her with his gaze as she went back to dishing up the food. It really was a stupid thought that this was the Impala, but it was the only explanation he had. All the little details were there: the engravings, the toy, even the number plate. 

She kind of reminded him of Missouri Moseley a little. 

“You’re…?” 

“The Impala,” she confirmed, nodding. “That’s right, honey. Call me Chevy.” 

Cautiously, Dean made his way to the freezer to switch the bag for a new one. “But how are you… human? _Why…_?” Dean exhaled, whistling the breath between his teeth, and muttered, “I’m talking to my human car, what the fuck?” 

“Language,” she replied. Dean blinked, surprised; he hadn’t been scolded for swearing since he was around John. “I’m not gonna repeat myself, so go get the others and bring ‘em through for breakfast.” 

Dean became a messenger for ‘Chevy’; he roused Sam and Kevin, delivered the icepack to Castiel (simultaneously hauling his ass out of bed, much to his irritation), and brought them all back, as promised. They all looked a little worn; Kevin and Castiel were both bleary-eyed, while Sam didn’t seem like he’d slept at all, judging by his slow blinks and repeated yawns. 

The Impala served the plate of bacon - just bacon; nothing fancy - and sat down at the head of the table, lifting her feet onto an empty chair next to her. She watched them expectantly until Dean got the hint and dug in. 

All in all, it was a very bizarre situation. 

Castiel was a little more human once he had a cup of coffee in him. He was more alert, which, unfortunately, also meant he was more aware of his ankle. There was much shuffling as he rearranged himself so he was leaning against Dean with his lower half supported by the remaining chairs on their side, ice in place. 

“Satisfied?” Dean grumbled, raising his arm so it wasn’t squished behind Castiel’s shoulder. 

Castiel hummed. “Yes.” 

He lifted his gaze heavenwards for a moment, exasperated, before letting it settle on the Impala. She watched them, clearly amused. 

“So,” Dean said, waving his hand around at their little gathering, “we’re all here now. You gonna spill?” 

“It’s Gabriel,” the Impala replied simply, spreading her hands. “He saw what was goin’ on, figured you four could use a little bit of a mother’s love, and here I am. It’s not gonna be for very long, maybe a couple more hours at most - perhaps not even that. But, even after that, I’m always here for you boys, you hear? Don’t go doin’ your mopey crap just ‘cause I can’t give you a boot up the backside.” 

_No, she’s more like Bobby,_ Dean thought now, correcting his earlier comparison. 

“This mornin’, you boys are gonna relax. That means no Tablets, no non-fiction books… at least give yourself a break until this afternoon.” The Impala’s boots thumped as she put her feet back on the floor, the rubber squeaking slightly on the tiles. “After I’m back to normal, you boys do what you’ve gotta do, but until then I wanna see y’all relaxin’.” 

“Does this mean Gabriel’s watching us?” Sam asked. He raised his hand then, hiding another yawn behind it. Dean watched his eyes stray to the feather around the Impala’s neck, recognition evident on his features. “That’s one of his feathers, isn’t it?” 

“Yeah.” Her fingers rose, touching the frayed, golden edges lightly. “He is. Not actively, but enough to notice that you need a quick break before you get back into things. And who better to make you chill than one of the closest mother figures you have? Considering what you went through yesterday and what I overheard-” 

“Wait up.” Dean raised his hand, as if he was physically inserting it in the conversation to stop it. “Have you overheard _everything_? As in _everything ever_ around you?” 

Her answering sly smile made his stomach drop. “While I was an inanimate object at the time, yeah, I do know. Gabriel turning me human briefly kinda means I’m aware of it all.” 

Dean cringed, sinking further down in his seat and dropping his chin to his chest. Unbidden, the thought that _he’d had sex in the Impala several times_ came firmly into his head. Castiel twisted, probably frowning, but Dean couldn’t see, as he was too busy pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. 

“Dean?” 

“I’ve, uh…” Dean cleared his throat as he raised his head. “Let’s just say that when there’s been a lack of motel rooms… And I’m with a girl…” 

If God was around, surely He’d smite Dean to save him from the embarrassment of admitting this in front of his family? Apparently He wasn’t, because when he looked up again, everyone was wearing an expression that was somewhere close to laughter - even Castiel, although there was also pity mixed with that. 

“I’m so sorry, ma’am,” Dean finished weakly. 

The Impala did laugh then, tipping her head back as she shook with it. “Oh, hon, don’t sweat it. No harm done; just maybe think twice. And don’t call me ma’am, that’s too formal - I told you, it’s Chevy. But, while we’re on the subject of relationships…” 

Her eyes landed on Castiel, who straightened as much as he could; Dean felt him shifting again at his side. Dean had never had the experience of introducing a partner to a parent, so this was an entirely alien situation for him. 

“Castiel,” Chevy began, “you’ve got flaws, but then so has everyone in here. You’re good for Dean, and he’s good for you. As the parent around here, I’m gonna take the liberty of givin’ my blessing for you two.” 

As quickly as he’d tensed, Castiel relaxed again. He cracked a small smile and inclined his head as he said, “Thank you. I do like to think that our relationship will be successful.” 

“Dean can start on his part by gettin’ you cleaned up.” She turned a stern stare on him. “Dean, that boy’s been sat in the mud from his fightin’ all night. You go make sure he’s washed up. Go on, off with you.” 

Dean was visibly annoyed with being ordered around, but that warred with his desire to help Castiel, and clearly lost. His chair’s feet screeched as he pushed it back and offered his arm to Castiel so he could get up. It looked natural now for Castiel to use Dean as a crutch as they hobbled out of the room. 

Chevy then turned to Kevin, who froze like a deer in headlights. “Your turn to do the dishes,” she said firmly. “Off you go, son.” 

With a quick clatter of crockery, Kevin whisked away the plate and disappeared into the kitchen. Sam chuckled softly; it didn’t surprise him that the Impala had turned out to be like this as a human. Chevy seemed to have taken her duty of mothering them to heart, which was actually quite sweet, in a weird way. 

She was also about as subtle as Dean; her tactic of sending everyone else away to get Sam alone was something straight out of his brother’s handbook. 

Chevy twisted in her chair, facing him directly, so Sam did the same, the corner of the table the only thing between them. He waited, expecting the next ‘Are you crazy?’ speech already. 

“Are you sure about what you’re plannin’ to do, Sammy?” she asked gently. Sam’s heart squeezed in his chest at the nickname; clearly, she’d picked that up from Dean. Unlike when his brother called him ‘Sammy’, he decided to let it slide with Chevy. 

“I’m certain,” he replied with a nod. “I know it’s a big ask, but someone’s gotta do it. It’s not like I’m not gonna tell them when I find a lead; I’m still gonna ask them for backup. I’m not dumb enough to try and take on Abaddon by myself.” 

“Good.” Chevy sniffed, folding her arms. “‘Cause you need Dean’s support - but that’s by no means an excuse to get back to being stupidly codependent. You boys have made progress in that area, and I swear to God I’ll kick your asses, car or not, if you screw it up now. We’re all more than happy for you to work on your own just as long as you join with the other two when it’s time for the showdown.” 

Apparently satisfied with what she’d said, Chevy patted Sam’s hand and fell silent, her fingers lifting to toy with the feather at her throat. The sight of it had been a surprise to Sam, especially when it had brought him to the conclusion that Gabriel was still watching over them. Even as he watched Chevy’s feather, it curled in on itself further, signalling its dying Grace. 

He didn’t think she’d have until midday before she was just a car again. Sam dropped his gaze, shifting it away so it landed on a scratch in the table instead. Part of him wished that they could always have this; it was good to have a mother figure around. 

Then again, she’d always technically be there, wouldn’t she? 

That thought brought a small smile to his lips. 

* * *

Sometimes, Dean thought the universe really was out to get him by placing him in awkward situations. 

He was running Castiel a bath, since it seemed the more practical of the options available. The water was good and hot, the bubbles frothing as the level rose. Dean was a little jealous that he didn’t get to get in, actually. Unfortunately, it wasn’t for him. 

It was for the half-naked man sat on the toilet lid. 

Aside from his bandage and his boxers, Castiel’s skin was bare. Dean had valiantly ignored the sight as Castiel had undressed, turning his attention firmly to the bathtub even though it didn’t need constant watching. The problem wasn’t that Dean couldn’t keep his mind out of the gutter (he could), or that Castiel was nearly naked while he was in the room. 

No, it was that he couldn’t work out a way to transfer Castiel to the bath without potentially getting an eyeful. 

He was a grown man, he knew what was down there and that Castiel probably wouldn’t give a crap if he saw, but their relationship hadn’t progressed past kisses, and they weren’t even very heated ones at that. Dean actually kind of liked that it was slow; the endgame was usually sex because the time was so limited, so taking his time was a strangely nice. 

Eventually, however, it couldn’t be avoided any longer. He couldn’t waste water by letting it out of the bath, because Sam would have a fit if he found out that Dean was doing that just to prolong the inevitable. Steeling himself, Dean switched off the taps and said, “It’s ready.” 

He stood, drying off his hands on the rolled towel that would serve as Castiel’s foot cushion while he was in the tub. When he turned, Castiel was right there, bringing back his old habit of coming up out of nowhere, only this time he was using Dean as a balance so he wouldn’t fall over because A) his ankle was fucked, and B) he was getting naked. 

Dean shifted his eyes firmly upwards, not letting them drift any lower than Castiel’s collarbone. It wasn’t exactly a neutral zone, but it wasn’t his face groin or his face, which was a bonus because Dean was fairly certain that the tingle in his cheeks meant that he was blushing, which he refused to acknowledge. He thought he heard a soft exhale of amusement, but that could have been his imagination. 

Helping Castiel into the bath was another difficult matter. The bandage couldn’t get wet, he could hardly balance with one leg, and there was the problem of Dean carefully skipping past looking at his middle. Castiel was damn lucky that Dean was around, he thought, because he doubted that there was anyone else that would go to this length for his comfort. Sam would’ve probably given him a sponge bath or something. 

Castiel sighed when he sank into the hot water. The bubbles thankfully covered up anything below the surface, allowing Dean to breathe again. 

Dean sat back on his heels, letting his gaze drift to study the sigils on the walls as Castiel set about washing himself clean of the mud that had managed to get under his clothes during their trip yesterday. It was only when there was a bottle of shower gel being offered to him that Dean snapped back to the present in time to hear Castiel ask, “Could you do my back?” 

His fingers took the bottle from him before he could question the fact. “I can’t reach it,” Castiel added, eyebrows lifting, giving him that ‘ _Hurry up, Dean_ ’ look. “My range of movement is limited. Yours isn’t.” 

Either Dean was in Heaven or Hell. He’d yet to decide which. 

Dean gave him a little smile as he shuffled around on his knees to be able to reach his back. Castiel shifted up, the water in the tub sloshing as he moved. 

The actual process of squirting some of the gel onto his hands and then rubbing it onto Castiel’s damp skin was decidedly less erotic than he’d thought it would be. Castiel just got on with his business, scrubbing off bits of mud, while Dean did his shoulders - and maybe he threw the suggestion of a massage into the way he pressed his fingers, which Castiel seemed to appreciate, judging by the way he relaxed under his hands. 

It wasn’t until he rolled his shoulders forward, silently requesting more, that Dean noticed the scars that sprawled across Castiel’s back. They were burns, clear shapes of feathers stretching along the backs of his arms and down, fanning out across his lower back. Dean couldn’t see farther than there thanks to the lip of the tub. Two points just underneath his shoulder blades were redder and angrier than the rest. 

“Cas…” 

Castiel hummed in acknowledgement. He didn’t seem all too bothered by it, but Dean recalled with clarity the last time that he’d been reminded of his fall, and while there was fondness to it because it had led to this thing between them, he wished it had come about from something that was less painful. 

Dean decided he’d drop it instead of asking. He scooped water to pour down his back to wash off the bubbles, his touch originally careful on the scars, but when Castiel didn’t appear to react he treated it like any other part of his back. 

When it was washed clean, Dean gave his shoulder a squeeze and drew away to dry his hands, only to find his chin being caught by damp fingers and turned back around. He made a soft sound of surprise as his lips were met by Castiel’s. 

It was gentle and loving, made up of lingering presses that warmed Dean from head to toe. His hands found the edge of the tub, folding around it as he leaned further forwards. It was almost like Castiel was seeking reassurance or comfort, and Dean was glad to provide it. 

Dean wasn’t sure where it changed, but it began gaining heat. It was a tentative kind, as this wasn’t something they’d ventured into yet; there was a gentle nip here, a swipe of a tongue there. Castiel had no definite taste that Dean could place - he could sense the coffee and bacon from his breakfast - but there was something there, something that was like lightning and freshly fallen rain. 

They shifted positions, Dean pressing forwards and Castiel sitting up- 

Only for the latter to growl and break away suddenly, lifting his poor ankle into the air. He sighed in irritation, hand falling back into the bathwater with a slap. “This is inconvenient,” he complained. 

Dean sat back on his heels, head spinning a little. “Tell me about it.” He sighed and leaned in to plant a quick little peck on his mouth. “Let’s save the more intense stuff for when you’re better, yeah?” 

Castiel grumbled against Dean’s lips, but gave a little nod of agreement. “Fine.” 

Silently, while he grinned, Dean thought that Castiel was kind of a little cute when he was irritated. 

* * *

When they returned to the dining room, Castiel squeaky clean and leaning on Dean probably more than he needed to - Dean checked, Castiel was more than capable of standing on one leg for a decent length of time - the only inhabitant was Sam. 

“Where’d Chevy go?” Dean asked. 

Sam tilted his head in the vague direction of the bunker’s garage. “The feather was about to go, so she left. I guess it was a timer for her.” 

“I wanna see if I can catch her before she goes. Cas, you mind-?” 

He was already pulling away, reaching for a chair instead of holding onto Dean. “Go. Pass on my thanks.” 

Dean gave a little salute before darting away, jogging through the twists and turns to find the narrow staircase into the garage. He was hoping to find Chevy standing there as a human, but he found the car version instead. She was in the same spot as he’d left her the day before, as if she’d never moved. 

Around her rearview mirror was a piece of string with a golden feather.


	15. Lost and Found

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs for this chapter:
> 
> Lost Cause - Imagine Dragons

When Dean trudged back into the dining room to deliver the news of the Impala’s transformation, he found himself confronted with an entirely different scene to the one he’d left.

For one, Castiel was standing on his own two feet with ease; he wasn’t even wobbling and he didn’t look in pain. When he saw Dean, he walked back over to him, but instead of appearing pleased with the ability to do so, his mouth was set in a firm line of suppressed frustration. Dean knew the expression well. 

He looked past Castiel to see Sam, who was sat at the table and cautiously examining the archangel there: Gabriel. 

Gabriel had a lollipop in his hand, which he twirled as he regarded the three of them. He grinned, inclining his head towards Dean. “I fixed up your boyfriend’s ankle. You’re welcome.” 

Dean’s eyes narrowed, slitting suspiciously at Gabriel for a moment. He kept his gaze on him as he asked, “You feelin’ okay, Cas?” 

“Perfectly normal,” he confirmed. He took hold of Dean’s sleeve between two fingers and tugged lightly as he started back for the table. “It’s fine, Dean. I’m sure Gabriel doesn’t mean us harm, no matter how obnoxious he can be.” 

Gabriel placed a hand over his heart, feigning shock. “Ouch, bro.” 

Castiel didn’t seem fazed at all by his brother’s reply. In fact, Dean swore he saw Castiel’s expression harden further, determined not to let anything through. As they sat on the opposite side of the table, Dean took his hand underneath it, linking their fingers together in an attempt to soothe him. 

It was, admittedly, a little surprising to find how quickly his mood had switched in relation to Castiel’s; as soon as he’d noticed Castiel was hiding his upset, Dean had put away his own to calm him. They’d always worked in tandem with one another automatically, but the change in their relationship seemed to have made that a more common occurrence. 

“Deal with it,” Dean growled in reply. 

“So,” Sam interrupted. Dean was half glad that he’d stepped in before things built, if he was honest, even though he was annoyed that he’d broken it up now. “Why are you just dropping in now and again, Gabriel? Like just now, with Chevy. We’ve dealt with worse while in the middle of stuff, we didn’t need a break.” 

The archangel shrugged, popping the candy in his mouth for a second. When he withdrew it, there was an audible _pop_. “What can I say? I’m a kind, caring guy, who wants his favourite humans to do well this time ‘round. Plus, turning your car human? I couldn’t pass that up.” 

Castiel maintained his stony silence; Dean stared; Sam’s lips twitched into a half smile. 

“What you’re saying is you just wanted to screw with us,” Sam said. 

“Nope. You’re only half right, genius.” Dean flinched as Gabriel cracked the lollipop between his teeth, and then proceeded to crunch away. It was possibly the most irritating thing he’d ever had to witness. 

Sam leaned forwards, hands folding in front of him. “Then enlighten us.” 

The stick of the lollipop skittered on the table as Gabriel flicked it away. Dean fought with the urge to snatch it up; nobody was allowed to dirty the rooms, especially his kitchen and the dining room. He caught Gabriel’s eye and saw him smirking. 

“One: you needed to stay out of the way. If you’d stayed, you’d have been pounced on by angels _and_ demons. They all want your bod, Deano, even though Cas already has his claim on you.” 

That caught his attention. Dean’s frustration melted away to a low simmer, curiosity and wariness replacing it. “What do you mean?” 

“You heard Abaddon, she wants in on some Winchester action.” His next words were annoyingly cryptic, and set Dean’s anger levels ticking up again: “True vessels are back in season.” 

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Dean snarled. 

Gabriel held up a hand. “Patience, young grasshopper.” 

Castiel ripped his hand out of Dean’s as he stood up, slamming them on the table instead as he leaned forwards. “We don’t have time for your games,” he growled. 

Dean wasn’t sure whether it was residual hurt from Gabriel’s flamboyant display of power or whether he was genuinely angry on behalf of the others that had provoked Castiel; he was, however, more inclined to lean towards the former, with a healthy dose of ‘How and why are you alive?’ in addition, since those questions still hadn't been answered. 

It was the first time since before the angels’ fall that Dean recalled the true extent of what Castiel’s power had once been. He didn’t radiate it anymore, not like he had when Grace crackled beneath his fingertips, but he more than made up for it in the pure waves of _I-will-smite-you-if-you-say-one-wrong-word_ Dean was getting. He felt a little bit sorry for Gabriel, who was on the receiving end of it all. 

Despite the fact that Gabriel didn’t seem concerned by it, Dean was a little unnerved - and, judging by the look Sam sent his way, so was he. He placed a hand on Castiel’s shoulder, easing him back. Just the touch made some of the tension drain from him, but not all of it, and certainly not enough to get him to sit down. 

“Chill,” Gabriel replied easily. He sniffed disdainfully, looking away. “If you want answers, relax, or I’ll just hop on outta here and wait for you slowpokes to find out some other way.” 

Castiel exhaled heavily through his nose and moved away, choosing to pace like a caged tiger instead. Dean’s hand dropped back to his thigh, his gaze tracking his path as he moved back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. 

“So I’ve been tapping into the ol’ angel frequency,” Gabriel started, “so I can keep up to speed with what’s goin’ on and know how to react accordingly. They’re not being all that secretive considering only angels can listen in. 

“Well, I was minding my own business a couple of days ago, and I heard something you guys are gonna _love_.” 

Dean waved a hand. “Get on with it.” 

“They caught a demon.” Gabriel sat up, a grin playing on his lips. “Did what they had to so they could get the info they wanted, all that stuff. Then they broadcast a juicy lil tidbit across the wire.” There was a definite buzz to Gabriel now; he seemed excited about whatever he was going to say, the kind of excited that reminded Dean of little kids being told they were going to Disneyworld. 

“Michael and Lucifer are out of the Cage.” 

There was an almighty screech as Sam’s chair moved back and then fall with a clatter. Like Castiel, he’d stood, only Sam’s movement wasn’t out of anger. His eyes were wide with barely controlled fear. “ _No,_ ” escaped him, weak and quiet. 

Dean wasted no time in getting up to join him, a hand on his arm. “Sammy?” 

“Dean, I…” Sam was _shaking_ \- it was a subtle tremor, but definitely there. “Dean, if he’s out there…” 

“Then we’ll kick his ass again,” Dean said firmly. He grasped both of Sam’s shoulders, locking gazes with him so all he would see was his brother. “We’ve done it before, and we’ll do it again, just like we always do. This is no different, Sam.” 

Sam’s hands came up, grabbing at Dean’s elbows. “The things he _did_ …” He swallowed. “I just got over the nightmares, I can’t have them again, Dean, I can’t.” 

“Hey.” A hard tone wasn’t getting him anywhere, so Dean softened it again. “Me and Cas are here this time, Sammy. There’s no reason for you to let the devil in, no reason at all. We’re a team - a _family_. We’re not gonna let him get you, promise. C’mere, brother.” 

Sam leaned into Dean, arms sealing around him in a hug, fingers grasping at the back of his shirt and holding on tight. He pretended that he didn’t feel the trembling, because if Dean was the one in need of this hug, he’d hate to have it brought up. He startled slightly when he felt a third pair of arms joining, but a quick glance up and to the side told him that it was only Castiel seeking to offer further comfort. 

When Dean looked further, settling his gaze on Gabriel, the archangel looked back silently, his expression unreadable. His eyes gave nothing away, and even as Dean watched, they drifted with distraction. Dean knew that look well; he’d seen it in Castiel’s eyes many times. 

Gabriel was listening to the angels. 

* * *

All good organisations required a base, and Colopatiron’s army was no different. With the help of Paschar and Nisroc, she had searched for one that would be suitable for angels coming in and out at all times, but one that would also comfortably house them if they needed to assemble. It couldn’t, however, be somewhere that would be easily discovered. It had to be cloaked. 

Eventually, she led her flock to a town that had been cleared by demons. The scent of Abaddon and Winchesters was in the air; it made her nose crinkle with disgust and her lips spread with a smile in equal measure, creating some sort of twisted grimace. If they had remained active as hunters, then they were more likely to get their hands on each of them. 

Dean was for Michael - the true vessel. 

Castiel was to be locked away and given the punishment he was due. 

And as for Sam… he could be given to Lucifer, she supposed, if Michael agreed. Otherwise, he’d just be left alone. 

The way Colopatiron saw herself was as a temporary leader, the second in command - or the third, if one counted Naomi. She was doing nothing more than stepping in for Michael until he returned to give his orders and take his rightful place as an archangel. Until then, the angels were hers to care for. 

She took this thought to heart. In just a day, she made the town habitable. With the limited Grace among the angels, they fixed it so the windows weren’t broken and the buildings weren’t crumbling. Colopatiron had selected the town hall as her home, and her mate and close friend had settled there with her. 

It was a musty building, one that was, by human standards, not comfortable for living in. Dust and mould thrived here, already pressed so deep into the carpet that it would take a miracle to wash it out. The damp was creeping in from the damage the demons had done, leaving a smell that was hardly desirable, but it was the most official of the buildings in their settlement. Given the chance, Colopatiron would have preferred something closer to Heaven - clean, sleek, and professional - but she couldn’t run an army from the depths of a shop. 

The main office was reserved for delivering commands and hearing from her soldiers. That was what they were to her, that was what angels were intended to be: soldiers. In her aim to restore the old Heaven, Colopatiron had taken the meaning and offered it to them again. They had accepted it without question, craving someone to take their lead. 

Colopatiron’s desk stood in the centre of the room. The documents had been swept out of it and dumped, useless to her; the drawers remained empty, as she had no use for them. She’d given Paschar the room off of hers so he might spend his days in peace and quiet, away from the babble of the other angels. She wanted him at her side, but it wouldn’t do him good to have to listen to chatter. 

Instead, Colopatiron was advised by her old friend, Nisroc, the Angel of Freedom. They were a natural pair, given their similar charges. 

Unlike Paschar, Nisroc’s vessel suited him. His hair was shaggy and tawny, his eyes a sharp, piercing blue. He had kept his vessel’s glasses, despite the fact that he didn’t necessarily need them. In all fairness, they too seemed right on him. 

Paschar, on the other hand, had a vessel that was bulky with muscle, tall enough that his bald head could potentially knock into a doorway if he wasn’t careful. In a complete contrast to what his stature implied, he was a ‘gentle giant’ - that was the term Colopatiron chose to use, when in actual fact Paschar simply didn’t want to fight. Being constantly assaulted with visions made it dangerous for him to be anywhere near battle. He was simply the one to collect information for Nisroc and Colopatiron to distribute as they saw fit. 

Nisroc was a partner for Colopatiron when it came to leading the angels, but she was the one who ultimately held the control. He was her advisor more than anything else; she knew that he could leave if he truly wished, and she wouldn’t stop him. As they were old friends, she would accept his decision and only ask that he didn’t interfere with her plans. 

Colopatiron crossed the room, idly dusting off an old shelf with books that she didn’t care to read. They were useless, fictional and factual alike, as they held no information that she could use in her search for Michael or her war against Abaddon. 

Nisroc was seated at her desk, tapping his fingers in a beat that she didn’t recognise. He seemed bored, but she had nothing that she could offer him to solve that. 

Eventually, he sighed, and the tapping stopped. “You aren’t going to find him by sitting here, sister.” 

“I’m well aware of that.” She switched sides of the room, walking to the other with a quick click of shoes on wood. “How else do you suggest that we locate him? I won’t put Paschar through further stress.” 

“Michael will come to us when he wishes to,” Nisroc said evenly. “He likely has his own agenda. He won’t come to us for support unless he needs it. We should concentrate on the demons and the Knight of Hell, not a brother that, potentially, doesn’t want us to find him.” 

“ _He_ may not want us, but we need him.” Colopatiron’s hands became fists, her nails digging into her palms. “I can’t lead this flock forever, Nisroc. I was never intended to be an angel to lead our own - humans, yes, but not other angels. That is an archangel’s job, if not God’s.” 

There was a sigh, and then the creak of the chair leaning back. “Colopatiron, if the rumours are true, then Michael has the issue of Lucifer to consider. The apocalypse was postponed, and it can’t be forever. They both need to find suitable vessels if they can’t locate Sam and Dean Winchester, and that would mean tracking their bloodlines.” 

Colopatiron turned, lips pursed. “Sam Winchester has no children. He is Lucifer’s only option if he’s going to have a strong vessel.” 

“And Michael?” 

“He has a handful of options.” Colopatiron forced herself to stand still, assuming a coolness that she didn’t feel. She was agitated; she wanted to spread her wings and fly, soaring until the nervous energy was burned out. 

Nisroc’s eyes narrowed behind his glasses. “You mean the Braeden boy.” 

“I do. In fact, I’d even say that Michael went directly to him so he could feel secure. Wouldn’t you want to be in your true vessel with the devil waiting to pounce?” 

Nisroc inclined his head. “A valid point.” 

“If he has claimed the child,” she continued, “he will need somewhere to stay. He will know the complications that come with possessing a child; how will he get anywhere? Michael will want access to Dean Winchester, and we are the best chance he has of that. Look at us, Nisroc!” 

She whirled away, pacing back towards the door. “The Winchesters were here just two days ago!” She turned on her heel to face him again, her agitation becoming excitement. “This is the strongest lead to them and Castiel that we have had in weeks - months, even.” 

The mere thought of finally getting her hands on Castiel was thrilling. He had to pay for the damage that had been done to Heaven and its ranks; she would ask Michael for permission to throw him into Heaven’s prisons and deliver his punishment herself. 

Colopatiron felt the need to move building again, only this time it was out of joy, not anxiety. The skeletal remains of her wings, cloaked from view, trembled with the effort of remaining hidden. As much as she wanted to spread them, she wouldn’t; it would hurt too much to do so. 

“We can lead Michael to his true vessel, Nisroc,” Colopatiron breathed. She took a step towards him, her eyes wide with happiness. “We will be rewarded for reassembling Heaven on Earth in preparation for our ascent.” 

Nisroc rounded the table, his movements slow and deliberate. That was always the way it was with him: calculated. To him, freedom was something that had to be planned; he had spent so long guiding humanity towards its freedom - or its illusion of it - that it had become this idea that had to be plotted to be successful. Colopatiron shared this sentiment. 

“Be that as it may,” he said, “we cannot entice Michael to join us until we have direct access to Dean Winchester. He won’t be interested until we have located him, and if he finds him without us, your plotting will be pointless. What use is there in having a true vessel if he cannot access it?” 

“But we are a _pathway_.” Colopatiron held tightly onto her temper, not wishing to snap at her friend. “We are a route to the vessel.” 

“If you are so desperate to have Michael back with us, call for him,” Nisroc replied simply. He shrugged, unbothered, and wandered to the window behind the desk to stare out into the grey world of the town around them. “Evidently this is important to you, although why you’re so focused on him now is beyond me.” 

“An archangel can destroy a Knight of Hell. He can kill Abaddon, take out the head of the beast that will, given time, root us out.” 

“If you simply cut off the head of the hydra, it will regrow another,” Nisroc dismissed. “You need to strike it at its heart, not its brain.” He closed his eyes, a tiny smile on his lips, born of acknowledgement and acceptance instead of happiness. “The pathway you seek is always through the heart, sister. Always.” 

* * *

If Gabriel had gained any information from listening to their brothers and sisters, he didn’t mention it to Castiel, which only served to irritate him further. It was bad enough that he had to face the fact that he was rubbing his powers in his face again, but he was now showing off about spying on the angels. Castiel wished he could do that for the Winchesters. It was impossible, though, as the angels would be watching for his particular trace if he managed to grab onto the wavelength. 

He left Dean to bring Sam down from his panic after offering his comfort, withdrawing into the kitchen. Dean seemed to find comfort in making food, but Castiel didn’t. Still, it was a private space that was also nearby if he was needed. 

Castiel leaned against the counter, closing his eyes as he listened to the low murmur of voices next door. The soft sound of footsteps alerted him to the fact that he was being joined, and, judging by the gait, it wasn’t Kevin. 

“Gabriel,” Castiel greeted. 

“Cas,” he replied. 

There was a rustle to his side as Gabriel propped himself up next to his brother, hip resting on the counter. Castiel opened his eyes, staring at the wall opposite them. He was unwilling to be the one to break the silence; if Gabriel wanted to talk, he would be the one to do it, he decided. 

Thankfully, Gabriel seemed to be here to do just that. “What’s gotten into you, bro?” he asked. “‘Cause it sure ain’t Dean yet.” 

Castiel chose to ignore the not-so-subtle innuendo. “You’re flaunting your Grace, Gabriel,” he said simply. “I have none of mine now. It’s gone. Being forced to witness you using yours for _play_ …” He sighed through his nose. “It’s a waste, especially when it’s limited.” 

Gabriel huffed a laugh, but it wasn’t much of one. Castiel couldn’t detect any humour in it. “You think I don’t know that, bro?” he said, glancing across. “Every day, I lose more feathers. I feel my Grace bleeding away, whether it’s just it melting away or ‘cause I’m using it up. I wanna enjoy it while I’ve got it, Cas. Is that such a bad thing to want?” 

Castiel looked to the side in time to see Gabriel bowing his head. He felt more than a little cowed now; he hadn’t thought about how Gabriel might feel about losing his power. Gabriel probably replied on it more than any other angel because of his antics, and here Castiel was thinking about himself. 

It was very rare that Castiel valued himself over other beings. In his mind, he deserved what punishment he received for what he’d done - trying to become God, taking the souls from Purgatory, all of it - so to realise that he’d been angry at Gabriel over something beyond his control knocked Castiel’s legs out from underneath him. He thought that it was selfish of himself to focus on his anger over Gabriel’s feelings. 

Gabriel tapped his fingers on the counter, lifting his head again. There was a small smile on his lips, a mere ghost of his old cocky grin. “I don’t mean to rain on your parade or anything, honestly. I’m just trying to have some fun while it lasts. Who knows if I’m gonna get to recharge my batteries before it runs out? Or if I’m gonna be able to after if I can’t find a way soon? 

“I’m not invalidating the fact that you’ve got nothing now, Cas, I just wanna enjoy myself. And if I got you and Deano together, well.” Gabriel shrugged. “I’d consider that worth the waste of Grace.” 

Castiel silently called himself ungrateful. He’d never considered the fact that it was down to Gabriel’s pushing that Dean had come to talk to him, triggering their relationship to take its next step. 

He waited a moment, and then he elbowed Gabriel gently, as he'd seen Dean do to get Sam's attention. “Thank you for giving Dean and I the prompting. I’m truly, honestly grateful that you brought us together.” 

“No problem.” Gabriel smiled. Castiel thought that it looked a little sad, perhaps longing. As far as he knew, the only thing Gabriel had had that was close to what Castiel had now was with Kali. “With the world going to shit again, it’s about time you two crazy kids found some sort of safe haven with each other. At least I get to see my brother happy before everything tumbles.” 

Castiel’s gaze drifted, shifting through to the dining room. He could see Sam and Dean standing opposite each other, the latter with his hands still on his brother’s shoulders. As strange as it was to consider, Dean and Gabriel were a little alike in the way that they both just wanted to see their little brothers happy (although, Castiel wasn’t exactly Gabriel’s little brother; it was just the human equivalent of an archangel to a seraph). 

Of course, there was the very large, obvious difference: Castiel was in love with Dean, not Gabriel. Dean was the one he’d rebuilt by hand, piece by piece, carefully and lovingly, so everything was where it should be. He’d healed every ache and sore, relieving him of what had pained him in the years before he’d been dragged to Hell. Of course, he couldn’t heal the mental scars, but Castiel did his best to soothe him of what he could. 

He wished he could do that for the angels. If only they’d let him, he’d help them to get back to Heaven and he would gladly give up his Grace to stay down on Earth as a human. He thought that he’d prefer that now, even. Being an angel was all he knew, as he’d said to Dean days ago, but he was learning to be human. 

It wasn’t so bad. He had Dean as a partner, Sam as a brother, and Kevin as a friend. They were his new family, the one that truly cared about him. If Gabriel chose, he could join, too; Castiel wouldn’t begrudge him this if he craved it like he did. It was worth the struggle to get to it. Castiel had finally found where he belonged, and he wanted that for Gabriel. 

Once this was all over, Castiel decided he would bring it up with Dean. The two clashed, of course, but Dean had come to understand why Castiel wanted to help his family. He hoped that hand of kindness extended to Gabriel. 

"What would make you happy before things become worse, Gabriel?" Castiel asked. 

Gabriel didn't reply. His expression shut down as he buried himself beneath layers of blankness, and then he was gone with a whoosh of his wings. 

* * *

Losing Abaddon’s demons had meant Crowley had had to hunker down somewhere to properly ward it. It was a warehouse, large and echoing and with enough space for him to call up a few of his faithful hellhounds to patrol the area. It was a relief to see that they still stayed true to their leader; like puppies, they had bounded up to him as shimmering doglike shapes, pleased to return to their master even if he did smell suspiciously human. 

Crowley’s favourite thing about hellhounds was that they could turn from docile pets to fierce wolves with just a snap of his fingers. They were the perfect creature to keep him company during his exile. Oh, no doubt Abaddon would notice their absence, but these few only listened to him. 

And there was the bonus of them keeping humans away. It didn’t just work on demons, something he was incredibly grateful for. 

As Crowley relaxed in his new home, he watched the forms of his hellhounds sliding past the walls. They blurred in and out of his vision, tails whipping back and forth as they snuffled at corners for scents that would set off the pack. 

He’d missed this: the security, the comfort, the laziness of not running for his life. 

What was more, a hellhound made for a surprisingly comfortable cushion. One of the beasts curled around his back, happily letting him pat its head as they sat there. Its tail thumped the floor repeatedly as it wagged. 

“There’s a good lad,” Crowley muttered, scratching the hellhound between the ears. It was, at points, difficult to see them; as a part-human, his demonic ability was sullied by part of a soul that had almost formed during Sam’s ritual. It was, fortunately, steadily retreating as his power built again. 

The hellhounds’ black fur and gleaming red eyes were hidden from him for now, shown only in snatches and glimpses when his soul was overcome by pure dark energy for brief moments. Crowley craved the moment when he would be fully recharged. Then, he could face Abaddon and retake his throne. 

His power was returning, slowly but surely. It swelled like a blooming flower, growing in increments; when it reached its full potential, it would be beautiful. Currently, only telekinesis had returned to him, but that was enough. Crowley could defend himself well enough with that. 

A growl echoed through the warehouse, followed by the scrape of claws. The sounds were answered with others, an increasing crescendo of rumbling snarls. The hellhound behind Crowley agreed with a grumble but didn’t get up until he did. 

The beast prowled in front of him, prepared to protect him at all costs as it led the way to its fellows. The one usable entrance was surrounded by the wavering forms of hellhounds, making it seem like there was some kind of heatwave. It was surprisingly difficult to see the shape of the boy behind them. 

Crowley knew this child. He’d once kidnapped him to use as leverage against Dean because he knew he’d cared for him as a son. 

The Braeden child stared at him, but it wasn’t the boy’s consciousness that looked back. The creature behind his eyes was ancient, all-knowing, and seemed uncomfortable. Crowley expected that it was because the form wasn’t his to take; as a demon, he’d never had an issue with finding a comfortable vessel… unlike angels, which this being undoubtedly was. 

“Call off your dogs,” he said dismissively. “I have no quarrel with you.” 

“Unfortunately for you, mate, I don’t trust you feathered arseholes.” Crowley shrugged, laying his palm on the scruff of the hellhound at his side. “Now, refresh my memory: which one are you?” 

The boy raised his chin, a ghost of a smile passing over his lips. “Michael,” he answered. 

“Ah, the long lost elder brother. I remember you when you were throwing a tantrum before.” 

“It was no tantrum.” Michael’s stare became colder; sensing the slight increase in hostility, the hellhounds pawed at the ground, tails lashing. They wouldn’t attack until Crowley gave the order, though. “It’s destiny, Crowley. Lucifer and I must do battle eventually. It’s what God said should be.” 

“Still focused on that, are you?” Crowley sighed, scratching his fingers through the hellhound’s bristly, invisible fur. It rumbled softly. “Even though Daddy’s not home, you want to beat little Luci into a pulp. Wonderful. And here I was thinking some time in Hell would have allowed you to move on.” 

“Far from it.” Michael smirked. It was odd to see it on the young boy’s face; Crowley remembered only fear on it and an attempt at bravery. “It gave us time to rehearse. I know Lucifer’s style as well as my own now. Given the right conditions, I could even defeat him with minimal damage on Earth.” 

“But why are you here?” Crowley stepped around the hellhound at his side, weaving through the others. He relied on the feeling of fur brushing against his trousers and the outlines he could see to get past them. “You wouldn’t be here unless you needed something. You’re a big bad archangel, after all.” 

Michael folded his hands in front of himself, slitting his eyes at Crowley in consideration. “You can contact the Winchesters, correct?” 

“I can, but whether they’ll listen to me is another matter entirely.” 

That was, apparently, good enough for Michael, because he nodded in satisfaction. “I need you to put me in contact with Dean Winchester. It’s time for him to say yes.”


	16. Sweet Dreams Are Made Of This

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's earlier than normal because I've got a busy day ahead of me tomorrow.
> 
> **Also, brief warning: this chapter contains mentions of Hell experiences (both Sam and Dean) and there's also Dean's crappy coping.**
> 
> Songs for this chapter:  
> 9/15ths - Biffy Clyro  
> Sweet Dreams (Are Made Of This) - Eurhythmics

Sam half knew that he was dreaming when the pictures he was seeing took a turn from the hazy to the sharp and painful. To begin with, it was fuzzy, funny things that made sense to his sleeping brain, like telling Dean he couldn’t put the Impala in the garage because he and Castiel were going to try making a pizza for dinner. Dream-Dean was simultaneously impressed and terrified by the fact that he and Castiel were going to cook.

Just as they were settling down to the freshly made (and unburned) pizza, laden with too much cheese, the dream jumped time. He was aware of the fact that they’d eaten their dinner, but when it settled again, the place was familiar enough to make Sam’s heart rate kick up a notch. 

It was Stull Cemetery, Lawrence, Kansas. 

In his dream version of the cemetery, it was as barren as it had been when he’d visited it before. The Impala wasn’t there this time. All Sam could see was gravestones and trees, holding him in the circle they created like a devil’s trap might for a demon. 

Footsteps warned him of someone’s approach - Adam. In a bizarre mirror of the first time they’d set foot here, Adam was now the one infected with demonic energy, and Sam, while not exactly pure, was the opposing ‘good’ force. 

This dream was crisper, sharper, more real. Sam was more aware of himself and of the fact that this wasn’t real. The artificial wind carried no scent as it blew in his face, snapping his hair back against his cheeks; there was no temperature to it, no sensation, no odd details that stuck out. It was just a blank slate aside from the location. 

Adam’s eyes flicked black with a soft click as his lips twisted up into a snarl. There was hatred there, the kind that he’d felt like a kick in the stomach when he’d first laid eyes on his younger brother since his return from Hell. Honestly, Sam didn’t blame him for it. 

The ground tumbled away next to them, falling in on itself to create a void that sucked on everything around it. Adam seized him by the sleeves, dragging him towards the hole with unnatural strength. Instead of falling together, however, Adam shoved him, sending Sam tumbling backwards. Adam didn’t heed his yells for help as the world above became steadily smaller and smaller, until it was just a speck of light… and then gone, swallowed up by the flickering red glow of Hell and cold stone at his back. 

Of all the demons he’d met, Adam was probably the one that smiled the least. Every single one that he’d come across had a reason to smile - most of the time it was because at least one human was in some kind of pain, but that wasn’t the point. Very few glared unless things weren’t going their way. 

Sam would say that Adam had it kind of okay, if he looked at the situation objectively. He was powerful now, no longer trapped, free of the torture that had been inflicted on him day in and day out. He could _fight back_. It had made all of the difference to Sam’s mental health while he’d been in the Cage - although, once that mental block was gone, any ground he’d gained through that had crumbled. 

Adam, on the other hand, had been powerless. He hadn’t had the knowledge and battle-hardened instincts Sam had honed through hunting. When Sam had barricaded himself into a corner of the Cage, Lucifer had turned on Adam, goading Michael into joining him in using him as a punchbag at the same time. 

Sometimes, Sam thought that the Cage had been what Purgatory was like for Dean. There, his goal had only been survival, and escape when he’d been caught by Lucifer and dragged back into the fray. His torture had been then, often leaving him bloodied and in tears. Sam had been a creature of instinct in the Cage, battling to live another neverending day amongst the constant fighting and torture the two archangels inflicted upon the souls that shouldn’t have been there. 

Now that the nightmare had forced him to return here, Sam remembered that the Cage had been a constantly shifting place, the landscape of it changing whenever it suited it, like it was a living, breathing creature that had moods. Most of the time, it was a barren desert, full of rocks and open spaces that it was impossible to hide in. The next most popular was a cold winter tundra, which left him shivering and off guard when Lucifer inevitably caught up with him. 

Now, it was a jungle. Vines hung around Sam, blocking off his easy escape routes. Shrill bird cries of alarm rang out around him, flapping sounds accompanying them as they scattered. 

This was familiar. He’d lived this before. 

Sam knew that there would be a mangy tiger behind him when he turned. The cat didn’t bother to hide itself, instead staring him down with a glint in its yellow eyes that was often found in Lucifer’s. 

This tiger had hunted him down across all kinds of terrain. It was a representation of Lucifer while he’d been busy meeting Michael in battle; it looked starved and patches of its fur was missing. As Sam stood still, frozen in place, it shifted the soil with its claws and curled its lips back in a silent snarl. It looked like a grin of pure malice. 

Sam spun on his heels and sprinted. 

He knew it was useless the moment he heard the roar of frustration from the creature behind him. The trees became a blur as he ran, vines whipping his face even though he was _too slow_ ; dreaming slowed this memory down, made it feel like he was trying to wade through swiftly drying cement. 

The pawsteps slowed as the tiger drew nearer, a pleased rumble of a growl sounding behind him. Sam struggled to place one foot in front of the other, clawed at branches that protruded from the trunks around him in an effort to keep moving. 

He could relive the chase, but he couldn’t relive the capture. 

This was about the time in his experience that Castiel had swooped in to pluck him out of Hell’s grasp - only, it was his physical body that had escaped. His soul had clung to his body’s ankles, trying to grab Castiel’s coattails, only to feel claws in his calves as the tiger seized him and dragged him back down. Castiel hadn’t heard his yells as he’d flown away again, leaving the most important part of him behind to the tiger and, eventually, Lucifer. 

This time was similar, but so very different. 

Castiel had been a sudden bright glow, wingbeats and the dark shadow of feathers Sam’s only warning that something was changing before he’d been grabbed. There wasn’t any build-up here, just a slow fade of the scene; the tiger’s harsh snarls became quieter, the jungle faded before his very eyes. 

Sam just felt very warm. He relaxed as the soft brush of feathers shifted over his face and arms, curving around him protectively. The nightmare was wiped from his mind until the only lingering trace was the sense that everything was better now. When he opened his eyes, all he saw was gold; it shifted and rustled next to his ears. 

He sighed as he gave in. 

He had no reason to doubt this golden presence’s intentions to soothe him. It _felt_ pure; he knew that on a deep level that he didn’t dare to question. Sam sensed the mischievousness, the amusement, and the need to be causing some trouble, but there was also the simple core of the angel underneath: love. 

Unlike Lucifer, Gabriel had chosen to love humans over God, as He had asked. The fact that Sam knew even in his sleep that it was the latter of the two archangels that had taken it upon himself to sweeten Sam’s sleep was comforting. He could rest peacefully now because, like Dean, Sam had gained a guardian angel along the way, too. 

* * *

Castiel had never experienced his own dreams until he’d become human. He’d visited some, mostly Dean’s when he found that he enjoyed the oddness and the tranquility that came with them, but he hadn’t started to have his own until the nightmares faded. 

A recurring one was similar to the heaven he’d often found himself in when he sought peace as an angel. It was a park, lit up by summer’s sun and heat, filled with fat, buzzing bees that sat on flower petals. Ducks quacked on the pond to his right. Sometimes, Dean was there, and Castiel would admire the play of the light on his skin. Other times, Sam was also there, and they’d laugh over jokes he couldn’t remember. Mostly, however, he was alone. 

Castiel was sat on a bench made of long slats of wood and curled iron armrests. It was curved to his back, supporting him as he relaxed in the warm afternoon. He closed his eyes, soaking in the sun’s rays like a cat lazing around in a garden. The heavy material of his trench coat rested on his shoulders, acting like a blanket of comfort in this lazy world. 

He ignored the rustle of feathers he heard. In his dream, Castiel put it down to one of the ducks flapping its wings at one of its fellows in frustration; perhaps it had stolen a choice patch of water from the other. Castiel smiled at the stray thought. 

Fingertips touched the back of his hand. Instead of the hazy quality he’d come to identify as a dream, that touch felt far too real. 

Castiel jerked his hand back, his eyes snapping open. When he looked to his left, he saw that he now had company on his bench in the form of an angel he only vaguely recognised. He twisted, putting his back to the armrest behind him, wary. 

The angel rolled his eyes obviously, sighing heavily. “Relax, Castiel. I’m not here to harass you.” 

Given his most recent experiences with his brothers, Castiel couldn’t say that he was inclined to believe him. He narrowed his eyes, sliding further back. His coat was becoming folded underneath him; now he understood Dean’s insistence that it wouldn’t be good in a fight. “Who are you?” 

His companion tilted his head towards him in a more formal greeting. “Nisroc. I don’t believe we’ve met properly.” 

Castiel lifted his hand to meet Nisroc’s when it was offered to him, grasping it firmly to shake. Nisroc hadn’t stepped out of line so far - then again, angels knew how to seem businesslike and kind when they wanted to. 

“What do you want?” Castiel asked once their hands parted. His retreated to his lap, and while he wanted to fidget, he kept his palms flat on his knees, free in case he needed to move quickly. 

“You’re almost as single-minded as Colopatiron,” Nisroc said with an air of irritation. He exhaled heavily through his nose, gaze drifting to settle on the duck pond instead, as if it was far more interesting. “Your dream reveals your desires, you know. This… it appears to be a typical location for relaxation. You might want to take your subconscious’ hint.” 

Oh, Castiel knew the benefits of relaxation. He hadn’t known them until he’d become human and joined the Winchesters in the bunker, but he’d come to appreciate them in his months without Grace. He appreciated a morning where he could wake slowly, curled up next to Dean; he liked the taste of beer, although he didn’t drink it too much because his tolerance was poor; he enjoyed large meals, after which all he wanted to do was sleep. 

He didn’t say any of this. Castiel simply looked to the ducks as well, following Nisroc’s example. He got the sense that Nisroc was around equal to him in the angel hierarchy (if Castiel had had his Grace, that was), and so there wasn’t anything to fear here. 

Besides, it was just a dream. 

“I hope you don’t mind me intruding like this,” Nisroc said after a moment of quiet. “With Colopatiron constantly pushing for more, there isn’t much time to get in touch with our near-human selves.” He glanced over, raising an eyebrow. “How is humanity treating you?” 

“It has its perks.” Hot showers, for one; the pressure in the bunker was fantastic. “It has downsides, too. I find it to be pleasing overall.” 

“That’s good to hear.” Nisroc stood, brushing down his suit idly. “Walk with me?” 

There was now a path through Castiel’s garden, winding around the pond and into a thicket of trees. Flowers had sprouted on either side of it, purple violets and pink hydrangeas, their petals spreading luxuriously in the sunlight. They swayed with the gentle breeze. 

Nisroc and Castiel took to the path, making their slow way down it. The ducks fluffed their feathers and turned to them curiously as they passed. 

“There is word from the demons that the Cage is open,” Nisroc said conversationally. 

Castiel nodded. “I’m aware of that.” 

The other angel raised his eyebrow at the reply, but didn’t comment. “Michael and Lucifer roam the Earth again, and they no doubt want to finish what they started years ago: the apocalypse. Fortunately - or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it - the time for the official apocalypse has passed. The damage they will do upon meeting in battle won’t be as great. It will, however, need to be contained or given a set area. 

“Colopatiron wants this fight to happen; she’s tracking down Michael as we speak in the hope that he’ll be able to find Lucifer. I doubt our more rebellious sibling will stay quiet for long.” There was a quiet _snap_ as Nisroc stooped and plucked a stalk of lavender. He raised it to his nose to inhale its comforting scent. “I’m surprised he’s been silent for this long, actually.” 

“So am I,” Castiel agreed. “Hasn’t Michael gone to you?” When Nisroc shook his head, Castiel added, “But surely there’s safety in numbers?” 

“Yes, but even grounded Michael will certainly be more powerful than any of us,” Nisroc replied, “especially if he still has his wings. We don’t know; none of us have encountered him. We can’t possibly know if Metatron’s spell affected him the same way it affected us, and that’s not even including the fact that he’s an archangel.” 

It was true that there were many factors involved in assessing Michael’s level of power. The spell was complex enough to tear out a certain part of the angels’ Grace, but was it able to do the same to a pair of _arch_ angels locked away in Hell? 

Castiel had decided that he liked Nisroc. He didn’t seem to hold any judgement against him for his mistake, which made a nice change. Castiel didn’t condone his own actions, not at all, but to meet an angel that didn’t want to rip out his throat was refreshing. 

Still, that wasn’t all of it, Castiel didn’t think. Nisroc didn’t seem like the type to enter his dream just to pass along the hint that their brothers might be gearing up to fight again. No, there had to be a second point to all of this, probably something that would affect him specifically. 

“There’s something else, isn’t there?” 

The shade of the trees stretched over them, welcoming them into its cooler depths. The scents of flowers that Castiel couldn’t see was heavy here, filtering through the warm air and the trees’ branches. Bushes lined the sandy path at their feet. If Castiel paid attention, he could see the subtle hints of animals disturbing the greenery. 

Blue flicked across his vision - Nisroc had plucked one of the lavender’s bulbs and tossed it to the side idly. His lips were curled up at the corners. “Nothing gets by you, does it?” 

Castiel just thinned his lips and waited. 

Nisroc eventually sighed, dropping the lavender altogether, leaving what remained of it in the dirt. “They’ll need vessels.” 

One set of footsteps stopped. “No.” 

The other halted seconds later. “It’s in our best interests to deprive Lucifer of Sam; we don’t want him getting hold of that kind of power. Michael, on the other hand-” 

“You won’t touch Dean. I won’t allow it.” 

“Be realistic, Castiel.” There was no anger in Nisroc’s tone, only disdain and a little disappointment. “Michael could squash Lucifer in moments if that was the situation. So much destruction can be avoided this way.” He raised an eyebrow. “Might I remind you that it’s not your decision to make? Consent can only be given or withheld by the individual in question.” 

It was frustrating but true. There was nothing Castiel could do but give his opinion when the time came. Ultimately, it was up to Dean. 

Nisroc seemed to want to comfort him somehow, as he raised his hand but then let it drop again to shrug. “It’s how we work, brother. I understand that you care for Dean very deeply, but that gives you no amount of power over his fate. Even though you are no longer an angel, you are still victim to the laws of consent.” 

“Michael _consumes_ ,” Castiel growled. 

“And he also gifts,” Nisroc said. “He promised Dean things last time, did he not? I assume he’ll do the same this time around.” 

Castiel made a frustrated noise and averted his gaze, teeth gritted. Things were beginning to fall into place, it seemed, and while that was relieving, it was also a burden. There were more things to think about, more plans to consider and reconsider, more ways they could fall when they’d seemed to settle into their routine. 

He’d only just found his place in the world. He didn’t want to lose it again. 

The scuff of shoes on sand alerted him to further movement from Nisroc. The angel had stepped closer, his gaze level but with a hint of kindness about it as he regarded Castiel. “You have always been the one to give Dean advice,” Nisroc reminded him gently. “This is your time to show this again - yours and Sam’s. You are the two people that are most important to him, so he will listen to you. Make sure he knows his options and every fact about each of those.” 

Nisroc turned on his heel and began to stride away, the trees seeming to reach towards him to cover his back. The gaps between the branches created the illusion of wings. 

“Rest now, Castiel, and remember what I’ve said to you.” 

The grass was soft underneath him, creating a mattress as comfortable as the one on Dean’s bed. Castiel closed his eyes, nuzzling into short, spiky hair and curling closer to a warm body. Resting seemed like a very good idea. 

It seemed like a very good idea, that was, if his bedmate hadn’t twitched hard enough to startle Castiel out of the remnants of his dream altogether. 

* * *

Dean hadn’t had a nightmare in a good long time. He hadn’t missed them at all; in fact, he’d thought they’d disappeared for good, chased away by time and the presence of someone to curl up with. 

He was wrong. 

Mostly, it was images of Hell. There was Alastair, the knives, the pain, the fire, and the screams - his own and others’. 

But then it changed, since the horrors already displayed to him were ones he’d already seen a thousand times. They were no longer enough to elicit a reaction from him, so his subconscious reached further down and got creative. 

The knife was in his hand. The souls beneath it were ones he recognised, shining with a light that he knew on a level that was deeper than he knew how to access. They begged, they pleaded, they cried, but Dean was relentless in his dream, as he’d been in Hell in the end. The knowledge that Alastair was there, slimy and placing his hands in a loving manner upon his shoulders, kept him going. 

It kept him going even when it was Sam and Castiel under his blade. 

There was, in his mind and his dream, no rational reason why either of them would be in Hell. He could understand, however, why they had been given to him; it would be further torture for him while he dealt out their punishment. 

If there was one thing that Dean had refused to learn, it was the art of taunting. He could switch his mind off when it came to torturing, but he would have to be imaginative to think up suitable ways to tease, and he couldn’t stomach that. With pain, it was straightforward, and everyone present knew what they were in for; if he was going to mock the soul, it was unpredictable and left it with more than ‘physical’ wounds. 

Sam rebelled. Through his pain, he tried to reach Dean, calling to him firmly and harshly to try to snap him out of it. All Dean could reply with was “I’m sorry, Sammy, I can’t”. 

Castiel didn’t, and that was the worst part. Dean knew now that Castiel thought that he deserved anything bad that happened to him, so why would he protest in Hell? He was silent, occasionally making a sound or an expression that betrayed what he was feeling. All Dean could say was “Why won’t you fight back?” only to receive no answer. 

If he stopped being the one to hold the knife, he’d be back under it with Alastair wielding it. Dean wouldn’t consider that for a handful of reasons: first, it had been too much for him to bear; second, and most importantly, if he gave in it would be Alastair who took over his role of torturing Sam and Castiel, and Dean couldn’t let that happen. While it was him, Dean could lessen it slightly, make it easier on them. Alastair would do no such thing because he knew it would hurt Dean more to hear their cries. 

Surely it was kind of Dean to sacrifice himself to protect them, even if it was only a little? 

In the waking world, Dean twitched, a quiet, distressed sound escaping him. That was the path demons took; he’d witnessed it time and time again during his time in Hell. Souls progressed to a point where they were more dark than light, eventually mutating into a new demon. 

Dean was on that ride and he couldn’t get off. 

_Dean._

There was heat at his back, an arm around his waist, pulling him in. 

_“Dean.”_

Scents and sights that he’d never be able to burn out of his brain made it so he could barely breathe. 

“Dean!” 

He inhaled a deep lungful of air as his eyes snapped open, but he saw nothing - it was too dark. Dean found he had a handful of duvet in his fist, twisting around and between his knuckles. Now that he was awake, he knew that the warmth behind him was a good, comforting thing: it was Castiel, trying his best to help him, bless him. 

“Dean, are you alright?” he murmured into his neck. He was tucked right up against his back, curled around him protectively. 

“Can’t see,” Dean hissed. 

Castiel moved away briefly, and Dean closed his eyes, drawing his knees higher up to his chest. He heard footsteps and the click of the lightswitch, and then blessed light flooded through the room. Dean opened his eyes again. 

Castiel was walking back over to him now, his eyebrows drawn together in concern. The clothes he’d borrowed to sleep in were worn and stretched, the neck of the shirt sagging to one side. His hair was ruffled, and there were the marks of the pillow’s folds on his cheek. It was both a relief and a stark reminder of Castiel’s vulnerability to see him so human. 

Dean was glad when Castiel slipped back into bed. He rolled over so he could press his face into his shoulder, wrapping his arms around his middle. Castiel returned the hug, tucking his nose into Dean’s hair. 

“Are you alright?” Castiel repeated softly. 

Dean curled in tighter. “Nightmare.” 

“Do you want to talk about it?” 

“Fuck no.” 

This was, he thought, the best way to deal with waking from a nightmare. Before, Dean would have tackled it by getting up, finding the nearest bottle of whiskey, and steadily drinking it while he distracted himself with research. Castiel provided what he actually needed to settle properly: affection and physical comfort. 

“I need…” Dean trailed off, his words muffled by Castiel’s neck. He didn’t actually know how he was going to finish. 

He felt a soft press of lips on top of his head. “What do you need?” 

_“Distraction._ ” Dean pulled himself up, seeking out Castiel’s mouth to press his own against it firmly. “I can’t… I can still see it, I…” 

Castiel made a soft, surprised sound against his lips as Dean kissed him, and while he returned it, there wasn’t the kind of intensity Dean had hoped for. He was gentle, soothing, his palms resting on his middle rather than dragging him closer like he wanted. 

Frustrated, Dean rolled them over, settling on top of him. Their kissing had never progressed to horizontal if it was anything past an affectionate peck before bed; this was unexplored so far, and Dean just _wanted_. Sex, like alcohol, was a comfort and a distraction. 

The world spun, and Dean soon found himself on his back with Castiel’s fingers around his wrists. Castiel hovered over Dean, his knees dipping into the mattress either side of him. Dean sighed in pleasure, tipping his head back against the pillow. 

Nothing happened. Castiel didn’t move, didn’t touch him apart from what he needed to do to keep him pinned. Dean frowned and raised his head again. 

Castiel had evidently been waiting for him to realise that he wasn’t going to do anything. He simply knelt there, one eyebrow arched, a disapproving expression on his face. Dean flexed his fingers and tested Castiel’s hold quickly; it was strong, but he knew he’d let go if he really wanted out. 

“Cas,” Dean growled, though he was disappointed to find that it was more of a whine. 

“No, Dean.” Castiel let go of his wrists but sat up, planting himself firmly on Dean’s abdomen. 

“What, so you don’t wanna go further?” 

“It’s not that.” Castiel’s eyes were narrowing, taking on that look that said he was going to smite something if Dean wasn’t careful. “It’s that you’re trying to use it as an escape. Forgive me, but I don’t want our first time being intimate to be reduced to a desperate fumble in the middle of the night as a _distraction_ , when we can do this instead.” 

Castiel softened then, sliding off of Dean to move to the side and curl around him again, both with his arms and his legs. Dean still felt the thrum of need underneath his skin, although now that he had an opportunity to really analyse it, it was a need for closeness. Castiel seemed to want to fulfil that by cuddling. 

Dean crumbled. 

He let Castiel hold him, used him as an anchor as he murmured sweet nothings to him, chasing away the remnants of the nightmare. The dream had been fuelled by memories of Hell and the fears that lingered in his mind, and Castiel soothed it all away with gentle kisses and words. 

Neither of them went back to sleep, but they both got up in the morning feeling fulfilled. 

* * *

The morning was a slow one. The coffee pot was filled and refilled, its constant gurgle mixing with the soft music that played from Dean’s CD player; he and Castiel had brought it through with them when they eventually got up. Dean had still wanted the safety blankets he’d gathered over the years, and music was one of those. 

When Sam joined them, following the scent of the coffee, he seemed fairly normal. He didn’t look too tired, although there was the slight squint to his eyes that meant his sleep had been disturbed at one point. He looked pretty good though, so it couldn’t have been too bad, whatever it was. 

Kevin was, apparently, the only one who’d had a full night’s sleep. He informed them of that when he emerged with his first mug of coffee, a grin on his mouth. He joined Sam and Dean at the table, no books in sight. 

When Dean glanced down at the other end of the table, however, Castiel was surrounded by them. Dean squinted, but he couldn’t see what the spines said from this distance, so he waited until it came time to top up everyone’s coffee before he went to see what he was doing. 

He padded up behind him, leaning against the side of Castiel’s chair after placing the freshly steaming mug next to him. He laid his arm along his shoulders, giving him a quick one-armed hug. “What’re you readin’?” 

Castiel closed the book he’d been looking at, nudging it towards Dean to show him the cover as he reached for his coffee. It was about angels - an encyclopaedia of them, in fact, all of the ones that had been heard of by the author, including their stories, apparently. Dean flicked it open to the glossary, and noticed that the angels with the largest sections seemed to be Michael, Lucifer, and Gabriel. 

“Don’t you know all this stuff already?” he asked. 

Castiel nodded, humming around the lip of his cup. “I do. I wanted to refresh my knowledge. I’ve found that my human mind isn’t as capable of holding onto memories like my angel one was. It’s one of the more frustrating differences.” 

Dean took a sip of the coffee, nodding in understanding. “Our memories suck. It’s really annoying sometimes, I know.” 

Castiel leaned against him, his cheek warm against Dean’s side through his shirt. His hand rested on Castiel’s head, combing through his hair lightly. “C’mon, man. Come down with us. You look lonely up here.” 

There was a pause, a longing look at the books, but Castiel nodded.


	17. Original Prankster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Songs for this chapter:
> 
> Original Prankster - The Offspring  
> Break - Three Days Grace

Gabriel probably wouldn’t admit to how fond he was of the little gang in the bunker, nor would he ever verbalise how protective he was of them. After his return from the nothingness of an angel’s death, he’d latched onto them, even though he’d said that he had plans to go elsewhere.  


Unsurprisingly, Gabriel had lied about that. In actual fact, he’d had nowhere to go.

His identity as Loki had been destroyed. The whole story of being with the Greek gods was fake; the real Dionysus was still around, so Gabriel had just borrowed his quirks for a little while for his tale. The wine, fruit, and clothes had been a ruse - although, on a more cheerful note, the food had tasted great. 

One thing that he hadn’t lied about was the bottle around his neck. He had indeed scraped away his Grace over the years and tucked it away inside should he ever be truly cut off from the other angels. His feathers were indeed falling out as the level of power lessened, dropping away sometimes without him noticing; he hadn’t realised that he’d left one behind with Sam until he returned to check the bunker like the paranoid guarddog he believed himself to be and found the hunter looking it over. 

An odd warmth Gabriel hadn’t felt for centuries had settled in his chest. He remembered that it was affection. He hadn’t felt that since his angelic family had been whole - but had it ever really been whole? It was doomed to fail from the start. 

Gabriel flitted between the bunker and spying over the angels’ new home these days. The latter was purely for gaining information for his own purposes, so he knew how to adapt his actions. He was quiet, careful, and had no intention of telling anyone what he learned. The former was also for his own gain, although it was more for comfort rather than necessity. 

There was nothing tying him to the Winchesters, not even a misguided sense of obligation. If asked, he’d say that they were the one safe place he had in the world when there were angels and demons alike that would gladly seize a stray, weakened archangel. With the Winchesters, there was safety, even if he was either invisible or perched on the roof overhead. 

It was a poor life, true, but what else could he do? Gabriel didn’t want to find out what would happen if his store of Grace became entirely depleted. He’d spent enough on transforming Dean’s car and placing them in the fairytale world; he had to keep the rest for himself. 

As much as he wanted his constant flow of power again, Gabriel didn’t like what the angels were doing. They were focusing on the wrong thing entirely: Lucifer and Abaddon. The way back to Heaven was in the bunker, in the form of Kevin Tran, the owner and sole reader of the Tablet. Hell, the group of bedraggled humans inside the building below him had made more progress on reopening Heaven than the angels had even tried for. 

They were close to cracking it. Gabriel had peered in on the Prophet, and found the boy concentrating hard enough that the headache he had was broadcast out until even he could feel it. Since it was in his best interests anyway, Gabriel had smoothed away the pain while keeping himself hidden so Kevin could continue reading for a little longer. 

It definitely wasn’t because Gabriel was growing a soft spot for these humans. 

* * *

The night was cool and crisp outside the bunker. No clouds drifted over the sky, so the stars were free to twinkle in the blackness. 

Gabriel had flown among them once. He’d soared through the sky like a comet, blazing a trail behind him partly from the science of the speed and also an extra burst of Grace for show. Where was the fun in having that power thrumming beneath his feathers if he didn’t use it? He’d flexed his wings, set them alight in a controlled flame, and taken on the appearance of the old Gabriel, the Messenger of God, the true archangel. 

Now, he sat on the bunker’s roof, feet dangling over the edge. His wings were pressed to his back and cloaked from sight, but he could feel the feathers against a layer of himself that was deeper than his skin. It wasn’t quite his Grace, but it wasn’t muscle and bone either. 

The people inside the bunker were sleeping peacefully. Gabriel had swept away Sam’s nightmare, allowed himself the guilty pleasure of wrapping the hunter in a blanket of comfort until the last wisps of the dream had drifted away into nothing. He wasn’t sure what Sam was dreaming of now, but he knew that it wasn’t Lucifer or Hell. 

Gabriel clambered up onto the roof properly, flexing his wings until they spread. He winced as they did - they ached, although he thought that it would be nothing in comparison to those that had had theirs burned. 

It was time for him to move on and get back to spying. 

The wind caught underneath his feathers, but before Gabriel could leap and fall into a clumsy flight, he heard his name. 

“Gabriel.” 

He turned on his heel, wings still extended. 

As an archangel, he supposed that he should know all of the angels that were in Heaven. Gabriel had had a duty to God and His children, and he’d abandoned that in favour of a life of drink, sweets, and sex. He hadn’t even paid attention to Metatron when he’d been plucked from the flock to become God’s scribe. 

So it wasn’t all that surprising that he didn’t know the angel he met gazes with. Even after scanning him with a little Grace, Gabriel still didn’t recognise the other angel’s essence. He’d seen him before, though. 

The angel strode forwards, hand outstretched. “Nisroc,” he said. 

Gabriel grasped his hand and pumped it once. He quirked an eyebrow. “Can’t say I know you.” 

“Hm. I’ve been introducing myself rather a lot this evening. First Castiel, now you, Gabriel.” Nisroc adjusted his glasses, lips thinning. “I’m not arrogant enough to think you’d recognise me, although less blankness would be flattering.” 

“Oh, no, I’ve seen you before.” It didn’t mean he trusted him, though. Gabriel’s feathers itched in a way that was nothing to do with pain - it was suspicion. “I just don’t know you, buddy.” 

“Well, you certainly seem to know our ranks, at any rate.” 

Gabriel could see the other’s wings now. The feathers that remained were a pale, woodsy orange, and they shuffled against his back restlessly; even though Nisroc appeared calm, his wings betrayed his true feelings. Gabriel’s own fluffed in response, trying to bulk him up. 

“What do you mean?” Gabriel asked. 

Nisroc took a step forwards, skeletal wings flaring. “You’ve been watching us. You’ve left a distinct imprint of your Grace on our new home. I remembered it as soon as I saw you, brother. You’ve been spying.” 

“Bullshit.” Gabriel flicked a dismissive hand towards Nisroc, hoping it would be enough. “Why would I wanna do that? I don’t even work for anyone.” 

“Why are you found with the Winchesters so often?” Nisroc threw back. “Gabriel, the way things are laid out before me imply that you’re giving them information about us, especially given your history of leaving us.” 

“Because it was wrong. You think the apocalypse was a good idea?” Gabriel snorted, folding his arms. “I’ll tell you what I told those knuckleheads last time: _I don’t care who wins, I just want this to be over._ ” 

Nisroc narrowed his eyes and began to walk. It was an aimless kind of walking, the sort that was done to release some kind of pent-up energy. “Remaining neutral will get you hurt. There have been enough deaths and injuries already, brother.” 

There was a pause then, but this one wasn’t because the angels were sizing each other up - although, Gabriel had half a mind to get out while he could. He couldn’t at the moment, however, not when Nisroc was near his charges. 

It was Nisroc that spoke next. Gabriel had nothing to say that wasn’t snarky jokes and sarcastic comments, but since he didn’t feel like wasting his unneeded breath on this angel, he’d kept his silence. 

“I want to protect our family,” Nisroc said softly. “Colopatiron wants to purify us, leaving us with only the most brutal, but she’s distracted with finding Michael to put Lucifer down properly. You can come home, brother.” 

Gabriel’s wings flattened against his back, shielding himself against an invisible threat. “You want me to join you dumbasses?” 

Nisroc seemed to find distaste in the name Gabriel had given them, but other than a furrowed brow he didn’t react to that. “Yes.” 

Gabriel didn’t want to take sides. He wanted to stay neutral, flitting between his two places and lingering over the bunker without anyone realising that he was gaining an Achilles heel for the younger of the two brothers. It wasn’t much of a life to live while this problem went on, but it suited Gabriel. 

He didn’t have much of a choice now though, did he? 

Gabriel spread his wings wide, the golden feathers shimmering in the moon’s light. For once, he looked every part the archangel that he was: weakened, yes, but powerful. His fingers curled, leaving a space, and his sword materialised in his grasp, silvery and inscribed with ancient Enochian letters. 

If he was picking a side, he was staying here. 

“Get off my turf.” 

“Ah.” Nisroc stepped back, hands held up placatingly. “You’ve made your choice? You’re joining them?” 

Gabriel nodded once. “Got it in one.” 

His Grace pulsed, aching to burst free and engage in battle. If he did so and defeated the other angel, he could even absorb his Grace before it dissipated, fuelling his own. 

It was a dangerous, poisonous, tempting idea. 

Nisroc unfurled his wings, but not to challenge him - to leave. Gabriel wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed that Nisroc had chosen the safer of the two options. 

“If you return to our home, you’ll be captured,” Nisroc informed him simply. “It’s in your best interests to stay away now, even if you weren’t spying. Don’t come back. Unlike Castiel, you’re not formally thrown out of our ranks; we can’t afford to do that to you, an archangel.” 

Being the Messenger of God had some benefits after all, Gabriel supposed. 

* * *

Dean was never fond of research, but when it involved the kind that was about Castiel’s soul it was even worse. It meant he had to face the fact that Castiel might indeed have to give it up for the angels - which he still really wasn’t happy about, either. 

Sam was across the room, leafing through books from the section of their library on demons, specifically Knights of Hell. Dean prayed that he’d find something to help them out on the Abaddon front, because otherwise they were pretty damn screwed. 

He, Castiel, and Kevin occupied a table between the three of them. Kevin frowned at the Tablet, scribbling on a piece of paper without looking at it and occasionally reaching for the glass of water he had with him; Sam and Castiel had both insisted on giving him water instead of coffee. 

Castiel had, both fortunately and _un_ fortunately, take research to heart. Obviously, he didn’t want to lose his newly acquired soul anymore than Dean wanted him to, but he was less open to distractions and breaks than even Kevin had been at the height of his translating days. No amount of gentle nudges of feet could get Castiel to do much more than glance up or bump his ankle in return before going back to the book he was reading. 

Dean knew how to do research when it needed to be done, but that didn’t mean that he couldn’t be bored with it. 

It had dragged on for too long for him. He’d scanned the same books before, and he knew that there wasn’t anything to do with souls that would be helpful for them in them. The spell that concerned Castiel’s soul was in the Tablet, and there wasn’t much to read on those, either. Everything they could possibly need was in the hunk of stone before Kevin. 

It was probably one of the worst situations they’d ever come across in terms of research material. Everything was just so _obscure_. Souls weren’t understood; Tablets were rare; very few books gave information that was detailed enough about Knights of Hell to be useful. 

Dean stood up, shoving his chair away from the table, deciding to stalk through the shelves until something seemed promising instead. There was also the bonus of moving, which he needed right now. 

Research was too still. It was necessary, but it felt like no progress was being made even when there was some for Dean. As bizarre as it sounded, even to himself, he needed visible proof that something was going their way, and until one of the other three spoke up, there was nothing. It was all he could do not to leave and go to the shooting range instead. 

The sound of a phone ringing split the silence. For a moment, Dean didn’t even realise that it was his. It was the vibrating against his leg that told him so. 

Three pairs of eyes fixed on him accusingly. 

Dean held his hands up in surrender, which did nothing to quiet his phone. “Sorry. I’ll take this outside, shall I?” 

The rustle of book pages was his answer. 

It was a relief to escape the pressing atmosphere in the library, but he also felt like he was letting the team down a little by leaving, even if this viable excuse technically wasn’t his fault. Dean could hardly claim to know what he’d done to piss off some kind of deity now - although, in all fairness, they did have a hell of a lot to pick from, even if it was years in the past. 

He leaned against the wall with a sigh, wrestling his phone free from the confines of his pocket. It buzzed in his hand as he held it, the screen lighting up again to reveal three familiar numbers: _666_. 

What did Crowley want now? 

Dean tapped the answer button and raised it to his ear, intrigued and a little concerned. Surely it couldn’t be a good thing if Crowley was calling? He’d said that he wanted to keep his distance, at least until he’d recuperated, so why was he getting in contact with them now? 

It was an easy equation to work out: there was something in it for him if he got involved, which meant outside influences. 

Sometimes, Dean thought with a crooked smile, it helped to have a brain that had been honed for tactics. Things like that were second nature for him to work out. He might not be a maths whiz, but he could damn well make sure a situation was safe. 

_“Dean_ ,” Crowley greeted, _“how lovely to hear from you again, darling. How’s the brood?”_

“Fine, thanks. You?” 

_“I’m doing wonderfully, thank you. I feel as right as rain again, thanks to a friend here. Speaking of, he wants a word with you. Do you mind?”_

“Who is it?” 

_“An old friend of yours. I won’t spoil it any more. Passing you over now. It was lovely speaking with you again.”_

There was clattering from the other end as Crowley’s phone was passed from hand to hand. Dean glanced upwards, exasperated, and tapped his foot in time with the beat stuck in his head - the tick of a clock. _Tick-tock, Crowley._

Dean was wholly unprepared for what he would hear from his mystery guest. He’d thought it would be some new baddie come to stick their nose in and get a bite of the mess they always seemed to find themselves in. He expected dark, dangerous, menacing. 

He got an ancient being’s tone in a child’s voice. 

He recognised the voice. 

Ben. 

_“Hello, Dean.”_

Those two words reminded him of the times when Castiel greeted him. He always spoke levelly, simply, with a hint of fondness to it. He’d come to treasure the greeting, and to have it sullied by a creature that was possessing Lisa’s son made him want to throw up. (Later, he’d admit that ‘Hello, Dean’ was a pretty common phrase, and then he’d put his reaction down to the situation rather than the words being stolen.) 

“Who is this?” he bit out. 

_“You know me. We’ve met before - although, not while I’m in this form.”_ The speaker sighed in frustration. The sound was too old for Ben’s vocal chords. _“It’s Michael. You must remember me.”_

“Unfortunately.” 

Dean’s head was spinning with questions. How hadn’t he heard about Ben’s disappearance? Right, of course; he’d had Castiel wipe his and Lisa’s memories of him. They wouldn’t know to contact him. Lisa had probably informed the police if it had been long enough - but, then again, how old was Ben now? Was he old enough to legally leave and care for himself? 

Dean felt old. Too old. 

He gathered his wits enough to say, “Why do you have him?” 

_“You know your angel lore, Dean. You tell me.”_

He closed his eyes, breathing in deeply. “You guys have certain bloodlines. You can possess outside of them, but it’s not good for either party.” 

_“Good...”_

“You get one true vessel in that bloodline - in your case, me. Which I’m still not happy about, being an angel condom has never taken my fancy, just FYI. How come you’re even topside?” 

_“I’m afraid you’re going to have to change your mind about that, Dean. Recent events mean that I need your help. I assure you, I would not have taken the boy if I wasn’t desperate for a vessel that would hold me.”_

Dean carefully didn’t think about the implications of Michael’s words. Doing so would drive him mad. 

He squeezed his eyes shut, the back of his head touching the wall. He paused, exhaled, and decided to move further down the corridor so he didn’t disturb the others. The last thing he wanted was to give them a very real distraction when they could be on the home stretch. “Let Ben go, Michael. He has nothing to do with this.” 

_“I beg to differ. I don’t want to use manipulation, Dean, but sometimes it’s all that there is left. Right now, I’m giving you the option of agreeing to be my vessel in return for the boy’s freedom.”_

“You haven’t explained why you’re above ground yet,” Dean replied flatly. “How do I know you’re even Michael? And what do you want?” 

Dean’s heart was sinking, settling somewhere below his feet. He knew that he’d have to say yes this time. Ben was just a boy, one he’d distanced himself from so he could escape this kind of thing. He didn’t deserve this. 

Unfortunately, angels were ruthless when they wanted to be. They would do whatever they had to in order to get what they wanted - in this case, Dean. 

_“What angel would dare to impersonate me? To answer both of your questions, you should consider Lucifer. He, too, is out of Hell, and I need you so I can put him back there - or, if I must, end him entirely.”_

“The apocalypse?” 

No, they’d avoided that in the first place, it couldn’t come to pass- 

_“In essence, yes. However, we’re both greatly weakened because we’re cut off from Heaven. Lucifer is attempting to hide at the moment, and his vessel will be far weaker than even my current one. With your help, I can finish him before there is any damage. He’s too weak to put up a fight worthy of the apocalypse.”_

Dean slumped against the wall again, needing its support to hold him upright. He wished he hadn’t left the library now; he wanted to hear the advice of his family on this. It was too late now, though. 

“What are the terms?” he asked eventually. 

_“We’ll have to discuss this in person. There’s much to talk about. Would you mind telling me your location so we may speak?”_

Dean didn’t much fancy giving Michael the bunker’s address, but he’d just be able to find out anyway once he had his wings back. Reluctantly, Dean reeled it off. At least an angel - and the archangel Michael at that - would respect them after the whole deal was over. 

“And,” Dean said once Michael assured him he’d remember the address, “you’re finding another vessel before you come here. Make sure Ben and Lisa are exactly as you found them, too.” 

There was a long silence, and then a sigh. _“I suppose I can agree to that. I’ll be with you in a couple of days at the most. I’ll be seeing you soon, Dean.”_

And then the phone clicked off. Dean was glad that he wouldn’t have to endure Crowley’s snark before he hung up. 

He felt cold and empty. With a sickening jolt, Dean realised that, very soon, he’d feel the opposite - there would be an archangel’s Grace burning brightly inside of him alongside his soul, power sparking under his fingers. 

He’d know how it felt to be lit up with Grace, to truly be a Warrior of God. 

* * *

Sam heard rustling from Castiel as he became more agitated. He glanced up from the unhelpful book that had gone from Knights of Hell to hellhounds, gaze landing on his friend. 

Castiel appeared focused, certainly, but Sam knew him better by now. It was probably nowhere near the level that Dean knew Castiel, and Sam would never want to intrude on that; that part was solely reserved for them. If he learned Castiel anymore, it’d be rudely overstepping the line, and that wasn’t something he wanted. 

Even as he watched, Castiel changed positions again. He sat up straighter, eyes flicking to the door briefly with a little frown, and then he looked back down at the book before him to turn the page. 

It was Dean, then. 

He had been gone a while, Sam agreed silently. He’d only overheard a part of the conversation, only enough to work out that it had been Crowley on the other end. It was only comforting because Crowley was an enemy that they knew how to act around, but it still wasn’t great that he was even calling in the first place. 

Kevin made a frustrated, wordless cry and slammed his fist on the table. “God damn it!” he snarled. Both Sam and Castiel shifted their gazes to him. 

“What’s wrong?” Castiel asked. 

“I was _so close_!” Kevin shoved his chair back, his footsteps heavy stomps as he stalked towards the door. “I saw it, I saw the last bit, but then the letters shifted and I _lost_ it…” He left, his angry muttering fading as he went. 

Castiel exhaled slowly through his nose, lips thinning he met Sam’s gaze. “Should we leave him be?” 

“Yeah, I think so.” He sighed, running his fingers through his hair as he let his book fall shut. “This sucks. We’re all so close to something here, and we just can’t figure it out.” 

Castiel hummed in thoughtful agreement. Much more calmly than Kevin or Dean, he stood, even going so far as to tuck his chair in. “I’m going to find Dean. Do you mind?” 

“No, course not, go ahead.” Sam waved a hand. “Looks like we’re all stopping for now anyway. You go check if he’s okay.” 

Sam got a glimpse of one of those rare smiles of Castiel’s - the ones that weren’t directed at his brother, anyway. It was warm and kind, and showed gratefulness in volumes. It was gone as quickly as it had appeared as Castiel went to track down Dean. 

Had he really been that bored with research? Sam shook his head, a small smile on his lips. 

A sudden rustle of wings alerted him to the presence of another. He jerked back, wary, and was then surprised to find himself relaxing in Gabriel’s presence. These days, Gabriel wasn’t much of a danger - that was how Sam rationalised it to himself. A feather, longer than all the ones he’d seen so far, floated down to rest gently on the shiny surface of the wood. 

Gabriel put his feet up on that shiny wood, and when Sam raised his eyebrows, the archangel quirked his own in reply, as if to ask, _“What’re you gonna do about it?”_

“Can I help you?” Sam sat back against his chair, folding his arms, looking expectant. 

“It’s more a question of whether _I_ can help _you_ , Sammy.” Gabriel crossed one ankle over the other, leaving the other to bounce in time with music that Sam couldn’t hear. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Well, you see, there’s a long story here, but I’ll shorten it just for you. Aren’t you lucky?” 

Gabriel paused, apparently wanting some kind of reply to that, but Sam just sat and waited. Eventually, Gabriel whistled. “Tough crowd. Alright, well, I’ve been spying on the angels, as you know, and I was found. I had some guy come and invite me into their ranks, I refused, and so now I’m with you guys. Go team!” 

Sam stared. He needed a moment to catch up there, because it sounded like Gabriel was just inviting himself into their midst. “You realise that I’m not the only one that lives here, right? You can’t just get me to agree and have that be it. Cas, Dean, and Kevin have to have their input, too.” 

“C’mon, don’t lie, it’d be great to have someone with power on your side.” Gabriel tugged on the necklace hidden by his collar, revealing the neck of the tiny bottle of Grace. “No offence, but I don’t see anyone else with one of these around here.” 

“I thought you and Cas made up about that.” 

“We did. Doesn’t mean I can’t state a fact.” 

Someone needed to educate Gabriel on what was good to say when, and Sam had the distinct feeling that it was going to end up being him, which sucked, considering what he had on his plate already. Dean and Castiel were meant to be the angel half of the group. 

“You can stay,” Sam said, and, when Gabriel grinned, he held up a hand. “For now. You’re probably right, we do need you on our side. But that doesn’t mean that we won’t kick you out. You’ve not been exactly trustworthy in the past.” 

Gabriel sniffed. “Excuse you, Moosey, but I told you the thing about the Horsemen’s rings, remember? That counts as trustworthy.” 

“No, that’s _helpfu_ l.” It was a shame that there wasn’t any alcohol in the bunker - that was Dean’s idea, surprisingly; once he’d gotten off of it, he’d wanted it out of sight and out of mind so he wouldn’t be tempted to dive for it once the shit hit the fan. Sam could use a drink to deal with Gabriel. 

Although, on the subject of useful… 

Sam sat up, leaning forwards. “What do you know about Knights of Hell, Gabriel?” 

The good humour dropped, replaced by something more serious. Sam had known from the beginning that Gabriel could do that, that his joking nature was, at times, just a mask, but it was still bizarre to see him being so… flat. 

“I know that they’re ruthless sons of bitches,” he said, “and that they’re as dangerous as they sound. There are only two things that you can kill them, and one involves going to find Cain’s blade. Good luck with that; you won’t ever find it without his help.” 

Sam tilted his head. “‘Cain’ as in ‘Cain and Abel’ Cain?” 

“Yep. No one knows where he is, though. He vanished way back.” 

That was disappointing. If the second option wasn’t easier to find, then they were pretty screwed unless there was something that would let them lock Abaddon up. Maybe they could somehow wrestle her into the Cage. It was worth keeping in mind, however unpleasant the thought was. 

Sam made a quick note to himself before he asked, “What’s the second thing?” 

“You’re looking at him.” Gabriel pointed his thumb at himself, a smile without humour tugging on one corner of his lips. “Me. Archangels. Well, technically it’s an archangel’s blade, but they work better with their rightful owners.” 

The solution to one of their problems had, almost quite literally, fallen into their laps. Sam exhaled a sharp breath, his surprise making his lips part a little. “You?” 

“I don’t see Michael, Raphael, or Lucifer around, so yeah, me.” 

“Do you have any idea how long we’ve needed this?” Sam huffed, a smile forming on his lips to turn into a grin. “This is amazing. You will help, won’t you?” 

Gabriel, picking at something under his nails, rolled his eyes. “Duh. I said I was on your team, didn’t I?” 

Finally having some kind of good news let Sam relax. He even laughed a little in relief, head tipping back, eyes darting across the symbols painted carefully on the ceiling by Men of Letters long ago. 

The tide was starting to turn in their favour at last. It was a good feeling, an addictive one. If things continued to go as well as this, then everything would be back to normal in no time. Hopefully, they’d even be _over._

Sam wanted to complete his law degree. The idea had just been an idle one, wistful longing, because the path ahead had been so long and dark. Now he could see that path coming to its finish, and while it was fraught with danger, the light at the end of the tunnel was in sight.


	18. The Moment of Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've actually finished writing this fic now, but updates will remain weekly. At some point in the near future, I'm going to post some doodles and little pieces of art that I've done for the fic [here.](http://adurnaskulblaka.tumblr.com/tagged/hmtts%20art) If you have any contributions that you'd like to share, the submit box is open!
> 
> Songs for this chapter:  
> Gods and Monsters - Lana Del Rey  
> Kings and Queens - 30 Seconds To Mars

“Sam? Dean?” Kevin’s voice rang through the bunker’s halls, the slap of his bare feet on the wood following it as he ran. “Cas? C’mon, one of you guys! This is _important_.”

Pages and pages of paper were clutched in his fists, folded over time and again so he could carry as many as possible - he was too impatient right now to bother with gathering each individual one, so he’d just grabbed the important ones and skidded out of his room fast enough that he’d almost slipped. 

Where the hell were they all? 

Okay, in fairness, Kevin mostly kept to himself. He liked that he could squirrel himself away in the bunker and not be bothered except for the call for food. He appreciated that the three of them left him alone nine times out of ten. Despite everything, he had a good thing going on, probably the best kind of thing that he could have at this moment in time. Sam, Dean, and Castiel were his family. But, damn it, with that peace and quiet came things such as _where the fuck were they when he needed them?_

He hoped to God that Castiel and Dean weren’t up to anything. He really, really didn’t need to see or hear that. Watching them make bedroom eyes at each other - before and after they became an item - was more than enough. 

Kevin made a rough grab for a wall - involving slamming his wrists against it so he didn’t have to let go of his notes - and leaned there, wheezing for breath. How did hunters do this nearly every day? It was beyond him. 

He held his breath, trying to listen. He could hear voices from the dining room. Gulping down another lungful of air, Kevin pushed off of the wall and lurched back into running. 

Reaching the dining room was a relief. Kevin stopped in the doorway, leaning against it and holding up a finger to indicate that they should wait. He coughed and hacked, cursing the fact that he didn’t work out more. Maybe he should have tried exercising between sessions of translating the Tablet. 

There was a hand on his shoulder, patting lightly. “Alright, Kev, just breathe.” That was Dean, gruff but soothing. 

Kevin wheezed in reply. 

Dean guided him over to the table, the hand still on his upper arm keeping him upright. He fell into a spare chair with a grunt, relieved to actually rest his legs. 

“So, you gonna tell us what’s got you all worked up?” Dean asked. 

Kevin surged forwards, slamming his hands on the table’s surface and scattering the papers across it. They fluttered before falling to rest, overlapping one another so much that, despite bringing them for proof, it was hard to see the English to recognise what the symbols and archaic letters meant. 

Kevin could read it. He could read it all. The letters made clear sense to him now. 

“I found… the third thing…” he gasped. 

“You mean for the spell to open the gates upstairs?” Dean clarified. 

Kevin glared. “What other spell… is there?” He started to scramble through his notes, looking for one in particular - the completed one, and his theories surrounding it. He found it beneath a page that was full of circular symbols that, admittedly, didn’t make sense even to him. He couldn’t remember if those were doodles or not. 

“Here,” he said at last, smoothing out the crinkles in the page. “I’ve got the ingredients, the words, everything. It all just unravelled and was clear, it was like I could actually _see_ for the first time in forever.” 

Kevin stifled a yawn then, covering his mouth up with his hand before he continued. “So there’s three ingredients total, like we thought. We know two - _the Soul of the One Fallen_ and _the Blood of the One Fallen For_ \- and the last one is _a Spark of Grace, Fallen and Risen_.” 

There was a low whistle from the end of the table. When Kevin looked up, he saw Gabriel, sitting with his feet on the table and a vaguely impressed look on his face. Kevin narrowed his eyes, distrusting after the fiasco of being a fairy. 

“That’s powerful stuff,” Gabriel said. “Blood spells are bad enough, but souls and Grace? That’s when you know this is serious.” 

“So was the original spell,” Castiel added. “They seem to mirror each other: a Cupid’s Bow for Grace and everything angelic; a Nephilim’s heart for blood; and I suppose that my Grace stands for the soul, in this case.” 

“Interesting idea,” agreed Sam. “Grace is your essence, isn’t it? That’s basically what a soul is to a human, so that makes sense. But there’s still the issue of where we’re gonna get these things.” 

“That’s easy, Sammy.” Gabriel clucked his tongue and rolled his eyes, exasperated. “Cas is the soul, Deano’s the blood, and I’m the spark.” When the others just looked sceptical at the third, Gabriel said, “Oh, come on, you don’t see it? ‘ _Fallen and Risen_ ’. I died and came back, didn’t I? And if that’s not enough, technically I fell outta love with the order of things upstairs but came back to do good for you muttonheads - which got me killed, so thanks for that.” 

Dean smirked. “Anytime, asshole.” 

“Bite me.” 

“Shut up,” Sam said. “Kevin, what’s the rest of it?” 

Kevin gave Sam a grateful look and cleared his throat. “So there’s no words that’ve gotta go with it, which is great, but there’s an order to it. It has to be in the order that I worked it out in. Gabriel’s spark will set it off and reopen the gates, so don’t add it until the rest is ready. It’s as simple as that.” He paused. “Uh, I dunno what you’re gonna put it all in, though.” 

Gabriel waved a hand. “I can rustle up a Grace-strengthened bottle tonight. I’ve got it covered.” 

Mostly, Kevin was watching the interaction between Gabriel and Sam, but when he saw the latter looking elsewhere - at Dean and Castiel - Kevin looked, too. They were having one of their silent conversations again, and for the life of him, Kevin didn’t understand. All he could get was overwhelming concern. 

“And what of my soul?” Castiel eventually asked, wrenching his eyes away from Dean’s. 

Nobody had an answer to that. 

* * *

Crowley’s first words when he entered the bunker were, “Good grief, you’re not a happy bunch, are you?” 

The somber mood from Castiel’s question had lingered over the five of them until Michael and Crowley turned up. Movement had been made - Kevin rearranging his papers into some form of tidiness; Sam putting the coffee maker on; Dean taking Castiel’s hand under the table - but they’d all remained in the dining room. Everyone felt on edge - Dean certainly did, especially as nobody, not even Gabriel, had tried to give him a suitable solution to Castiel keeping his soul. 

He had another question now, though. 

“Why the hell is Crowley here?” he growled, directing it at Michael. 

True to his word, Michael had selected another vessel. This one was a man, with long - and, if he were fighting using it, impractical - sandy hair. It was actually longer than Sam’s, which Dean would have joked about if he was in a better mood. He was short and skinny, with very little muscle to speak of. Even Dean could agree that he was a better suited vessel than this poor guy. 

The consciousness behind his pale eyes as strong and firm, though. He made the small stature he had to work with seem larger than life; Dean could easily imagine arching, imposing wings sprouting from his back. 

He shivered a little. Castiel’s hand tightened in his. 

“Crowley accompanied me because his assistance requires a bargain,” Michael said simply. “That is, assuming that you do want all of the support you can get.” 

They’d worked with Crowley before, hadn’t they? They hadn’t been the best experiences of Dean’s life, but it had worked. He wouldn’t be totally on board until he knew the full extent of what Crowley wanted, though. 

Michael shifted his gaze from Dean to the other archangel present. “Gabriel. You’re looking well.” 

“If by ‘well’ you mean ‘alive’, then yeah, I am.” 

“You’re welcome for that.” Michael continued his examination of the room, ignoring the sound of Gabriel’s feet falling back to the floor in surprise. “My first act upon becoming free was to raise you, brother.” 

Gabriel’s brows pulled together. When Dean looked, he was surprised to see that Gabriel looked a little vulnerable, definitely less guarded than usual. “We can do that?” 

“Lucifer raised Castiel years ago, didn’t he?” Michael pointed out. He sighed, clearly bored with the topic when there were more important things at hand. “I wasn’t certain that it would work, but I had to try for the sake of having more allies.” 

Now he turned his gaze to Dean. He felt Castiel stiffen at his side, bristling like an angry cat; Castiel’s glaring was probably angel-speak for _mine_ , and wasn’t that a surprisingly great thought? 

The narrowing of Michael’s eyes made Dean think that that thought might have been overheard. He wasn’t too sorry about that. 

“Dean,” Michael said, “we have much to discuss.” 

“Yeah, tell me about it.” Dean nodded towards the opposite side of the table. “Take a seat. We’re doing this where everyone can listen in.” 

“As you wish.” Michael seated himself, sitting rigidly in his chair. It spurred everyone else into action; Crowley, naturally, sat at one end of the table, placing himself near Gabriel; Sam sat by Kevin on the other side of Castiel. Michael was mostly alone on his side, but that didn’t seem to bother him. 

“You are aware of what I want from this,” Michael began. “I require your body as my vessel to defeat Lucifer once and for all. I do not wish to start the apocalypse; the damage will, I hope, be minimal, both to you and the planet itself. It should be quick and clean. 

“In return, I offer to return your body to you once I am done. I will return to Heaven with the angels.” 

“Fair enough,” Dean allowed. “I’ll take that, but there’s something else I want, too.” 

Michael blinked at him, something like amusement passing over his features. He inclined his head, indicating that Dean should go on. 

Dean’s hand tightened around Castiel’s. “We’re gonna reopen Heaven for you so you can actually get back up there, and doing that means Cas is gonna have to give up his soul.” 

“Dean-” Castiel started, but he fell silent when Dean cast him a quick, pleading glance. 

“What can you do to make sure he’s still him afterwards?” 

It was quiet again as Michael regarded the pair of them, apparently thinking. There were none of the quirks that a human might have while considering this; no tapping fingers or shoes, no humming, no drifting of the gaze. There was only stillness and silence. 

“May I see the spell?” he asked eventually. Kevin slid the sheet across the table to him; Michael picked it up, studying Kevin’s careless scribbles intently. 

“Binding his soul to yours is out of the question,” Michael said after a nerve wracking moment. “The spell is designed to be a sacrifice; he must give it up. If I was to give him Grace to replace it before the soul left, it would only burn him out. Theoretically, if we time this correctly, I can bind him to me to give him power until the struggle is over and we have a better alternative. 

“This will mean, Castiel, that you will have to accompany me to face Lucifer. With my Grace split between us, I’ll need your assistance to take Lucifer down.” 

Castiel nodded once. “I understand.” 

Michael smiled. “Good. Dean? Do we have a deal?” 

“We’ll have a deal when we’ve discussed everything else.” Dean kept his hands firmly under the table for now, one of which was still wrapped in Castiel’s. 

The archangel tilted his head, eyebrows lifting marginally. “‘Everything else’ being…?” 

Dean leaned forwards. “We need a solid plan. We need this to be flawless, ‘cause this shit is pretty damn serious. We’re gonna have angels chompin’ at the bit while we try to open up the gates, there’s gonna be Lucifer hanging around like a bad smell-” 

“And don’t forget the demons,” Crowley added. “I have a few on my side along with my faithful doggies, but that won’t stop Abaddon from being drawn to Lucifer. The word on the street is that she wants him on her side, so she’ll be trotting along to see if she can get a look in.” 

“Kevin,” Sam said, “you got any spare paper?” 

“Uh, yeah… here…” 

Kevin rustled around for a second, then passed a scrap over to Sam, who nodded in thanks. Sam took a pen from his pocket, clicked the top, and then proceeded to write down four, short lines. Then he looked up, attention settling on Gabriel, Crowley, and Kevin. 

“We have four people we know will fight so far: Dean, Cas, Michael, and me. What about you guys?” 

“I’m in,” Gabriel said, raising his hand. “You’re gonna need me anyway, so I might as well go all the way.” 

Sam scribbled, then looked to Crowley. 

He shrugged. “I’m here, aren’t I? Michael’s promising me Hell once all of this rubbish is over, so I suppose I’d better join the club if I want my throne back.” 

Another scratch of the pen. 

“Kevin?” 

The youngest of them hesitated, gnawing on the inside of his lip. “I… I’d rather stay here. I’d just get in the way. I’ll make these notes legible for you guys, then I’ll wait back here.” 

Sam nodded as he put his pen down. “Alright. That leaves us with six - technically five - people. Michael, what does Cas being bound to you mean for him?” 

There was a spark of something in the archangel’s eyes again, although this time it seemed to be more approving than humoured - he liked Sam’s question. “He’ll have to remain near to me, which means he’ll have to accompany me to my fight with Lucifer. He will, for all intents and purposes, be an angel again. Like myself, Lucifer, and Gabriel, he will be able to take flight. 

“His powers will, for the time that we are linked, equal mine, but that does not mean that he is an archangel. One archangel’s Grace will be divided between two of us, meaning that when we fight together we will be worth one.” Michael paused, thoughtful, as if trying to see if he’d mentioned everything. “Does that answer your question, Sam?” 

“Yeah, thanks.” Sam made a couple more notes; Dean was starting to get curious, but even when he craned his neck, he couldn’t read it from the other end of the table. What was he up to? 

“Crowley, you said Abaddon would be drawn to Lucifer?” 

“Correct.” 

“Then here’s what I think we should do.” Sam sat up, smoothing his hands over his hasty notes. “Cas, Dean, and Michael are one unit, so of course they’ve all got to go together to Lucifer, leaving me, Gabriel, and Crowley. 

“Me and Gabriel should handle the remainder of the spell, since all that will be left is Gabriel’s part. If Abaddon comes for us, we’ll have Gabriel’s blade and - if Crowley’s willing - he could leave a couple of his guys with us, too.” Sam raised an eyebrow at the demon in question, who merely shrugged and then nodded in agreement. 

Sam gave him a quick smile in return. “Which leaves you to go with the other three and wait for Abaddon to show up so you can do what you need to.” 

But the King of Hell scoffed, leaning back in his seat. “You’re forgetting that I can’t kill her. It pains me to say so, but I don’t have the equipment. Unfortunately, all I can offer is distraction for her army while Michael or Cas take their queen out.” 

“And after Lucifer and Abaddon are down?” Dean questioned. 

“Then we return to our brothers,” Michael said simply. “By then, most of the issues should be out of the way. The angels should have regained their wings and returned to Heaven. I will follow to see if I can collect Castiel’s Grace or retrieve his soul. He’ll have to come with me.” 

Dean bristled, narrowing his eyes. “And if you can’t get ‘em?” 

Michael rested his gaze on Dean, and he shivered from the coldness in it. He didn’t back down, however; he held it, glaring until the archangel finally spoke. “If I can give him either, he’ll have to remain in Heaven.” 

“Fuck that,” Dean spat. 

Castiel’s hand twitched in his, a warning. “Is there anything else to discuss?” he asked. 

“Nothing that we can’t fill you in on later,” Sam replied. He seemed to have picked up on the fact that Castiel wanted to remove Dean from the situation; he glanced at his brother before meeting Castiel’s eyes, giving a slight nod. 

Relief flooded through him. He tugged on Dean’s hand, urging him out of his seat. Dean seemed surprisingly eager to leave; when they headed for the door, he took the lead, growling and muttering under his breath. They didn’t make it very far down the hallway before Castiel stopped him, using his hold on Dean’s hand to halt them both. 

“Dean,” he murmured. 

He received a wordless growl. 

Castiel moved forwards, dropping Dean’s hand in favour of sliding his arms around his middle; Dean’s automatically raised to do the same, drawing him in so they could each feel the warmth of the other. Some of the tension drained from Dean’s frame, but not all of it. Some remained, making his shoulder hunch under the weight of it. 

Castiel tilted his chin up, connecting their lips in a quick peck. When Dean raised his head a little, Castiel saw that his eyes were closed. 

“Dean,” he repeated softly. 

Dean’s brow furrowed, a long exhale parting his lips. “I don’t like our chances.” 

Well, at least he was going to talk about it with him. Castiel’s hand skimmed up his back, moving to his hair instead. He’d learned in their time together that having his hair stroked usually calmed Dean, or at least made him relax a little. This time was no exception. 

“Michael will find something,” Castiel murmured, but Dean hissed and shook his head slightly. 

“You heard him, Cas.” There were suppressed emotions in his voice, making it tremble slightly as he tried to hold it all back; Castiel knew that, sooner or later, it would overflow and spill out in some form. “He might not be able to get your Grace or your soul. That’s two ways, sure, but if he can’t…” 

He removed his hands from Dean’s hair and back, replacing them on his cheeks. He made Dean raise his chin, determined to meet his eyes; when they were still closed, Castiel placed a firm kiss on his mouth. Dean made a sound of surprise, and when Castiel drew back again, his eyes were open. 

“You’re acting like I won’t be fighting to come back to you,” Castiel said. He raised an eyebrow, inclining his head towards Dean. “If I’m unable to return by Michael’s methods, I promise you that I’ll be looking for an alternative. I won’t sit idle.” 

Dean swallowed, his eyes flicking between Castiel’s. His hands tightened slightly, pulling Castiel closer. Castiel didn’t think he was going to get a verbal reply when Dean leaned forwards, tucking his face into his neck - which was fine by him - but then he heard words that were barely above a whisper. 

“I don’t wanna lose you again, Cas.” 

His heart squeezed in his chest, and he hugged Dean fiercely tight. “You won’t,” Castiel murmured. “I promise.” 

* * *

After Dean and Castiel left, the discussion dissolved into nothing. The cost here seemed to have sunken in for those that cared about the two of them; it was just as well that the plan had been formed before Dean became too agitated to continue. 

None of this affected Michael. 

He’d seen tragedies many times over in his years of existence, so it was nothing new to him. The fact that his vessel was in a relationship with one of his brothers had no bearing on his decision to take Dean as he should have years ago. The only difference this time was that he was bargaining with Dean to get him to agree. Castiel just happened to be his price. 

If that was what this took, Michael would do all that was in his power to keep to the promises that he’d made. 

He stood, relieved to be on his feet instead of sitting on the uncomfortable chair. The quiet conversation that had sprung up at the other end of the table quieted as all eyes turned to him curiously. 

“I’m going to speak with Colopatiron,” Michael informed them. “I need to give her orders for the angels once the gates are reopened. I’ll return by morning to execute our plan.” 

He didn’t linger. He spread his wings - visible only to Gabriel - and, with a single flap, began his flight. 

Michael’s feathers were white like snow and clouds, as he was supposed to be the pillar of the angels, the purest of the pure. Out of all of the angels on Earth, his wings were the healthiest; some feathers were missing, but there were no patches and no bones showing. They were truly a sight to behold. 

Locating his siblings was simple. Lacking a truly capable leader, they had thrown wide their connection, the Grace that held them an obvious channel to intercept - and intercept it Michael did. 

_Brothers! Sisters!_ His Grace echoed throughout the link; he felt when the other angels heard his cry and latched onto the wavelength eagerly. Joy rang back to him, and while he enjoyed being among his siblings again, he didn’t send them the same sentiment in return. Michael needed to remain above it all. 

_I must speak with Colopatiron. I have orders for her._

The angels were more than happy to guide him into their new territory. Michael recoiled slightly upon seeing where they’d settled, but reassured himself with the reminder that, should everything go well tomorrow, they’d be back in their rightful home. He swooped down, landing in a crouch before the building that contained their temporary leader. 

His wings folded into his back as he let himself into the town’s hall, his feet raising puffs of dust as he walked. There was a distinct hum of excitement surrounding the building, concentrated in one room: the main office. Michael could hear the flurries of movement from inside the room, no doubt Colopatiron scrambling to prepare herself or the room. 

It didn’t make a difference which. Michael’s orders would remain the same, whatever the room or she looked like. 

Michael gave the office a cursory examination as he entered. It was just as dirty as the rest of the building so far, but that wasn’t surprising. Nisroc stood to attention in a corner; he inclined his head in greeting when Michael looked his way. Colopatiron was stood behind her desk, her expression desperate when Michael finally rested his gaze on her. 

She seemed almost feverishly pleased to see him. It was a little off-putting, and it made him glad that he’d intervened now; if she had intruded upon the plan that had already been set for tomorrow, the consequences of that could be disastrous. Michael had no doubt that, given the right motivation, she could absolutely destroy their chance at restoring the balance. 

“Michael,” Colopatiron breathed. She looked him up and down, fingers curling around the edge of her desk, and swallowed. “You look well.” 

“You do not,” he replied. 

She licked her lips, head dipping to the side in acknowledgement. “Leadership is difficult for one that was not designed to lead.” 

“Evidently.” 

As cold as he seemed, Michael didn’t want to lose any of the angels that they had left; their numbers were so depleted after the fall and Castiel’s foray into being God that he couldn’t afford to have Colopatiron lose herself in her desperation to please him. He needed her to stand strong. 

Michael moved forwards, standing on the opposite side of the desk. “I have orders for you to pass to the other angels. I want you to make sure they are enforced.” 

She nodded. Colopatiron’s excitement seemed to ease at his words. She straightened, and while there was still an aura of agitation around her, she seemed a little more like the capable angel that he used to know. “What do you need?” she asked. 

“Tomorrow, the gates of Heaven are going to be reopened,” he informed her. He ignored the widening of her eyes and Nisroc’s quick inhalation. “Ask Paschar if you need confirmation on that. I need you to lead the angels into Heaven and capture the culprit. Lock him away and keep him there until I have finished my own business. Do you understand?” 

“Perfectly,” Colopatiron assured him. “Do you need anything else from us?” 

“Just the promise that you will step down once order is restored in Heaven.” 

She bowed her head respectfully. “Of course, Michael. I wouldn’t dream of keeping your place.” When she raised her head, the corner of her lips had pulled up into a smile that was almost sad. “It will be a relief to give it up.” 

Michael reached over the desk to rest a hand on her shoulder. He squeezed gently, then released her as he turned away to leave. “You’ve done well, sister. After this, you can return to the post you were given by our Father.” 

He didn’t see her trembling smile of relief, but he did feel her gratefulness pulse across their Grace connection. “Thank you, brother.” 

With that done, Michael took to the skies once more, this time to pick out two locations: one for the spell to be cast at, and one to draw Lucifer to. 

* * *

The bunker was heavy with the silence that reigned over it. All that could be heard if one stepped out into the corridor was the occasional murmur of words, a soft footstep, or the creak of water in the ancient pipes. 

Papers - both Kevin’s and Sam’s - had been left spread across the dining table. The pen that Sam had used rested amongst the mess of scraps and abandoned coffee cups, some still have full with, by now, undrinkable liquid. Some books were left open there too, leaving evidence of Sam’s attempts to find some solid evidence that would calm Dean for the storm that was ahead. Neither Gabriel or Crowley had had anything to offer him; Sam had had hopes for the latter, since he’d dealt in souls, but they were just as beyond him as they were for everyone else in the bunker. 

Gabriel was in the kitchen, rooting around to see what he could find in the way of candy, but there was no real energy to his movements. They were more controlled routine than a real desire for something sweet on his tongue. He had decided to preserve every little bit of Grace that he could so he could provide enough protection for Sam tomorrow rather than deplete his stores on food he didn’t need. 

Crowley had stepped back outside to make the necessary calls to the demons that were on his side. At Sam’s request, he hadn’t given out the address of the bunker; in fact, he wasn’t aware of it, as Michael had taken precautions to keep him unaware of its location when he’d transported them there. As clever as it was, it was frustrating for him. 

Kevin was sound asleep in his room. The lamp on his desk was still lit, illuminating the Tablet where he’d left it after his final discovery. He didn’t intend to look at it again after this; he’d ask the Winchesters if there was somewhere secure in the bunker he could store it. That way, it would be kept out of the hands of those that would use it for darker purposes. 

Sam was sleeping, too. His rest was peaceful and undisturbed, thanks to the presence of the self-proclaimed guardian archangel in their kitchen. Where before he might have spent the night tossing and turning in anticipation of what was to come, he was now out cold, a quiet snore rumbling in his throat as he slept deeply. 

Dean was wide awake. 

He stared up at the ceiling in the dark, trying to calm himself with the sound of Castiel’s rhythmic breathing. It did little to stop the worries that plagued his mind, however. Dean felt the urge to get up, to go to the shooting range, and to practice until his arm was numb from the kickback of the guns. It was what he’d done when he was frustrated over Castiel remaining missing all those months ago, and he ached to do it now. 

Just as he made to sit up, Castiel turned over. Dean glanced over at him, worried that he’d woken him, but when they made eye contact he knew that Castiel hadn’t slept at all; his gaze was too clear, too knowing when compared to the usual fuzziness and grumpiness that accompanied being woken up. 

Changing his mind, Dean settled down again, moving in close to him. It felt natural for their lips to meet then, seeking reassurance from each other. As the need increased, T-shirts were removed, dropping to the floor with soft thumps, and any other clothing soon followed. 

In the weak calmness here, they found comfort in each other. No words were spoken, only the occasional gasp of a name passing from one to the other, but that was soothing even as it worked them both up further. Dean tried to forget his fears as he felt the heat of Castiel against his bare skin, if only so they could have this one night.


	19. Unnatural Selection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs for this chapter:
> 
> I'm Just A Killer For Your Love - Blur  
> Caesar - I Blame Coco

Michael seemed to know exactly what had happened when Castiel and Dean joined the rest of them in the dining room the next morning. Dean thought that they looked perfectly presentable - hell, it had been hours ago that they’d actually had sex; they’d spent a while after that just relaxing together and then, eventually, they’d fallen asleep.

The looks pointed their way by the archangel weren’t accusing, like Dean had sort of expected; they were faintly amused, as if the desires of humanity were a joke to him. He didn’t bring it up in conversation, which Dean was thankful for. The last thing he needed when his heart was pounding a mile a minute was for Michael to start discussing his and Castiel’s sex life. 

Sam and Gabriel were lingering at the bottom of the stairs, the latter crunching away merrily at a Snickers bar. If that was his version of a ‘last night on Earth’, Dean wasn’t going to begrudge him that. His brother, on the other hand, had an eerie sense of calmness surrounding him that Dean used to be able to take hold of easily, but was now something he avoided. 

He wouldn’t deny that it scared him a little. It reminded him of Sam when he’d been soulless, prepared to do anything to get the ending he wanted. 

Dean was startled from his thoughts by Castiel’s sharply toned, “Where’s Crowley?” 

Gabriel jerked his thumb up towards the door. “Waiting outside. Mikey told us where we’re heading, so Crowley called up his cronies and his dogs to head on over. We’re flying over on the archangel express.” Nodding at Michael, he added, “Whenever you’re ready, bro.” 

“One moment.” Michael’s gaze slid over to Dean and Castiel, flicking between them, settling on the former before he spoke. “As soon as we arrive, we’ll begin the spell. I will require your permission as a vessel before then. We may as well take that step now. Time will be of the essence.” 

Dean felt his chest tighten with sudden panic and the desire to bolt back to the sleepy warmth of his and Castiel’s bed. Possession was something Dean had surprisingly little experience with, and he’d wanted to keep it that way. He _liked_ having control of his own body; giving that up was an intimidating thought to face. 

Castiel’s hand slid into his, squeezing gently. He didn’t say anything and neither did Dean, but he appreciated his wordless support. Castiel had always kept him grounded, and now was no different. 

The question was, however, would that be enough? 

Spending the night wrapped in each other’s arms was the last moment they could potentially have together; Dean knew that. If everything went terribly wrong today, everything would be over. Either of them could be left devastated, or they could both disappear - Dean burned away by Michael’s Grace and Castiel becoming nothing. 

It was terrifying. 

Dean wanted to hold onto the little bit of peace he’d carved out for himself, but he couldn’t. It was hanging by a thread, depending on the outcomes of this last battle. 

He took a deep, steadying breath, and then he nodded. 

* * *

Castiel was sorry to release Dean’s hand. He could see the moment when he came to terms with his decision; his shoulders squared, the flutters of panic faded from his face, and he raised his chin slightly. 

He committed that image to his memory. Soon, Dean’s features would wear the expressions of someone else, and Castiel wanted to remember Dean, not Michael in his form. He wanted to remember the warmth of Dean’s love last night, the subtle shifts in his face and voice as they’d touched each other. 

“Are there any further conditions to gain your permission?” Michael asked. 

Dean licked his lips, hesitating, and then blurted, “I wanna be aware. Don’t lock me away or some shit.” 

The archangel inclined his head. “As you wish, Dean.” 

As Dean nodded and murmured, “Go on, then,” Castiel saw everything that made him Dean disappear. 

Michael’s vessel dropped, becoming little more than a crumpled body. Castiel would have moved to check the human, but Gabriel waved a hand, gesturing for him to leave it. Whether that meant that the human was long dead or fine, he didn’t know; he was caught by the sight unfolding before him. 

Dean stood straighter, and the lines in his features smoothed out, leaving only cool indifference behind. His gaze hardened; all of the affection and fear Castiel had seen there was now gone. It was chilling to witness. 

Castiel glanced across at Sam to find him already looking his way. His mask had broken, revealing the worry that he’d been hiding; he raised an eyebrow at Castiel and mouthed, _You okay?_ Castiel merely nodded in reply. 

After all, he was a soldier. Castiel couldn’t afford to be weighed down by the bonds that he’d made. His mind had to be focused on the task at hand - aiding Michael in ending Lucifer, sending the angels back to Heaven, and keeping himself alive. For now, all emotions had to be locked away - he had to do what Sam had only moments ago. 

Michael seemed pleased with his professionalism if the nod directed his way was any indication. 

“We good to go?” Gabriel prompted. 

Michael lifted a hand, flexing his fingers. He parted his lips and drew in a deep breath, as if experimenting with his lung capacity - not that he needed to. 

If Castiel concentrated, he could see the glow of Grace beneath his skin. It was a weak, pale blue colour, and he lost his grip on his own Grace before he could get much more than a glimpse of it. 

When Michael spoke, it chilled Castiel even though he’d attempted to quiet his discomfort - he was using _Dean’s voice_. “We can leave,” Michael replied, giving Gabriel a quick nod. “Castiel and I will meet you there. We need to drop off this human first.” 

No further words were exchanged. Gabriel and Sam disappeared with a rustle and a flurry of golden feathers that Castiel barely caught. Dean’s - no, Michael’s hand landed on his forearm, gripping as the archangel bent to grab the collar of the nameless human’s shirt. 

Castiel saw Michael’s wings when he spread them. They were large, white, and filled the space as they burst from his shoulders. He looked every part the vengeful archangel that he was meant to be. 

The last Castiel would see of the bunker for a while was a simple blur. 

* * *

The location of the spell was Castiel’s landing site. Sam didn’t know that until Castiel and Michael turned up a few minutes later, after he and Gabriel had been standing around in the chill of the cooling seasons for too long, in his opinion. He’d complained about the cold, Gabriel had made his obligatory sleazy remark ( _“I can warm you up if you like, Sammy.”_ ), and then there had been a brief gust of wind. 

Castiel stood there, his eyes widened slightly as he took in the area around them. He stepped away from Michael, moving slowly across the grassy hill they stood on. He paused, staring at a patch of ground in particular, and then shifted his gaze down to the village at the foot of the hill. 

“Why are we here?” he asked. 

Michael strode towards the spot Castiel had been looking at, and he stood on it squarely. Sam didn’t like how he wore Dean - or the fact that he was wearing him at all, really; it felt too much like a repeat of the apocalypse, only reversed and without the risk of the possessed one dying. 

This time, the risk was much greater. If he’d been bad without a soul, he could only cringe at the thought of Castiel without one. 

“We’re here because of you, Castiel,” Michael said calmly. “There are remnants of Grace here from one of our fallen brothers. If I find it difficult to bind you to myself, then I will use what I can of it to secure the hold.” 

Sam shivered a little, but it wasn’t from the cold this time. It had really come to the point when they were willing to do anything, hadn’t it? Michael was speaking easily about harvesting the dead essence of one of his own brothers. 

He sighed, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. The hilt of the demon knife rested against his knuckles, providing some small comfort. He could feel the weight of his gun - filled with salt rounds - in the back of his waistband. A second knife, this one silver, was tucked into his boot. 

All of this couldn’t get rid of his pre-fight nerves. 

Gabriel took a vial from the inside pocket of his jacket. It was no bigger than his palm, and would be hidden if he curled his fingers around it properly. It was slim in shape, the bottom tapering off to a point. A tiny cork was stuck into the top of the small glass bottle. 

Sam had no idea whether the appearance of the bottle had any effect on the spell itself, and he seriously doubted that it did; it was probably just Gabriel’s natural flair for looks showing through again. 

He’d expected Gabriel to be a little more smiley, a little more bouncy to try to lighten the mood, but he was serious instead as he met Castiel’s gaze. “You ready, bro?” he asked, surprisingly gently. 

“Yes,” Castiel said simply. He stepped forwards, withdrawing beneath a blank exterior that Sam hadn’t seen in years. He was the Castiel of before now, very close to the one that had first pulled Dean out of Hell. The fact that Gabriel was trying to be kind didn’t matter, as nice as the gesture was. 

Castiel was in the zone. Sam had been, and he needed to get that state of mind back. 

He stood off to the side, simply watching as the two archangels moved to stand either side of Castiel. He wasn’t a part of this, nor was he supposed to be. Michael and Gabriel knew what they had to do, so he couldn’t even read them the notes Kevin had painstakingly made. 

“This is how it’s gonna go,” Gabriel announced. “Cas, I’m gonna feed your soul into the bottle while Mikey holds onto the Grace part of you. He’ll do what he needs to keep you grounded, then we’ll bring up Deano so he can do his thing with the blood. Finally, while you two - three, I mean - go off to find Luci, Sammy and me will keep things rolling here. Are the angels due to show up at any point?” 

Michael shook his head. “They’ve been ordered to go straight up to Heaven to locate Metatron.” 

“So we’ll just hang here and kill off any demons that come our way. Awesome.” Gabriel smirked, but it wasn’t the playful kind; there was something darker to it. 

Sam kind of felt like he was alone. He was surrounded by shadowed copies of the people he was supposed to know; they were all shut down, transformed, or changing. He just couldn’t force himself back into that frame of mind. 

Someone had to stay the same. Part of him hoped that Gabriel’s shift wouldn’t stick once their brothers had left. 

Gabriel had taken hold of Castiel’s hand, wrapping their fingers around the vial. Both of them had their eyes closed, Gabriel’s in concentration. Michael reached for Castiel’s shoulder; he flinched when the hand, so familiar and yet so different, gripped him. 

At first, nothing happened. The three of them remained still. A cool breeze picked up, chilling Sam further, so he drew his coat closer to himself. 

A subtle glow leaked through Gabriel and Castiel’s joined hands. The light was like Grace, from the little harmless pieces he’d seen before he’d been able to look away; it was white and blue, shining as it filled the bottom of the vial. 

Michael’s eyes began to shine too, so Sam fixed his own on Castiel. He watched the play of emotions over his face: shock, pain, a brief moment of blankness that terrified Sam, and then relief. Whatever Michael was doing seemed to be working, because Castiel was still showing that he could feel. 

At first, he thought he’d missed the moment when Michael succeeded, as Gabriel dropped Castiel’s hand and withdrew with the bottle. He retreated to Sam’s side, leaving the other two. 

It was barely seconds later that the show of power stopped, and Michael let his hand fall. He looked strangely exhausted, but declined Gabriel’s offer of a Grace jumpstart. “You need all of your power for the spell,” he explained. 

“Says the one going to hunt down the devil,” Gabriel scoffed. 

Sam ignored them both. He swerved past Gabriel to reach Castiel, taking hold of his elbows. “Cas?” he murmured, “You okay?” 

The poor guy seemed overwhelmed. His eyes had widened again, and Sam could practically feel the energy buzzing beneath his skin. Maybe Michael hadn’t thought this through all the way; what if the power was too much for Castiel, like an archangel trapped in the wrong vessel? 

But Castiel brushed Sam off, straightening from the slouch he’d fallen into after Michael moved away. “I’m fine,” he assured him. 

For once, Sam believed him when he said it. Castiel looked good now that he took a moment to examine him. There was a confidence in his features that he’d lacked without his Grace, which, admittedly, wasn’t all that encouraging for his possible impending humanity again. It was bittersweet to have the angelic version of him back, in a way. 

When Sam looked to Gabriel, he saw that he shared the same feeling. However, he quickly brushed it off, pulling on another cocky grin. “Alright, Mikey, you’ve gotta let Deano come out now so he can donate his blood to the cause.” 

The switch was quick. One moment it was Michael, his sword materialising in his hand, the next it was Dean, but he didn’t linger. He headed straight over to Gabriel, rolling back his sleeve. With his forearm bared, he used Michael’s sword to make a small cut. He tilted his arm so the red liquid spilled into the vial. 

Dean glanced up, gaze hovering on Sam for a moment before jumping to Castiel. 

The stare could only last a moment before Michael took him again. His fingers passed over the slice in his arm, removing all traces of the wound, blood included. 

“We’ll take our leave now,” Michael said. “We’ll return once Lucifer and Abaddon are both dealt with.” 

Without saying anything else, Michael vanished. There was a second’s delay before Castiel followed, and Sam caught the startled expression as he was yanked into flight. 

Gabriel sighed, sticking his hands - with the vial, now corked - in his pockets. “It’ll be a miracle if we all come out of this in one piece.” 

Sam nodded in agreement. “I think we all kind of deserve it though, considering.” 

“True that, Sammy.” He exhaled heavily again. Sam heard a faint tinkling sound - Gabriel’s nails tapping the bottle, maybe? 

It wasn’t long before the heavy thud of feet alerted them to the approach of hellhounds, plus Crowley and a few of his cronies. Crowley was actually riding a hellhound, although to Sam it looked like he was floating. He was glad that he didn’t have any experiences of being torn to pieces by one of those beasts. 

“Wonderful weather, isn’t it?” Crowley greeted them with. His hound stopped, its breath furling into warm clouds in the air. “Just as chilly as I like it.” He glanced between them, raising an eyebrow. “They’ve already gone?” 

“Yep.” Gabriel rocked on his heels, inclining his head in one direction to his right. “They’re that-a-way, not too far.” 

Crowley tipped an imaginary hat to Gabriel, tapped his heels against the hellhound’s side, and took off again. Mud was kicked up by invisible claws as it ran, others following it. A few demons lingered reluctantly as per Crowley’s orders, preparing to defend their endeavour should they need it. 

Sam nudged Gabriel with his elbow. He removed his hands from his pockets, grasping the demon knife. “You ready, Gabe?” 

The archangel smiled bitterly, and he uttered a phrase that had been full of faked cheer the first time Sam had heard it from him: “Let’s light this candle.” 

* * *

Being possessed while aware of what was happening was a bizarre situation. Dean could see and feel his body moving, but he wasn’t in control of the movements. He felt the sweep of wings - fucking _wings_ \- through the air as naturally as if he’d had them his whole life; he saw the whiteness of the feathers out of the corners of his eyes. He could sense everything much more strongly, though it was still muted by Michael, who was kind of like a protective layer between his soul and everything else. 

And then there was Castiel. 

He could feel the link between him and Michael. It was there, a very clear, brightly shining thing that he could touch with his mind if he tried. It was worrying that all he could feel from Castiel’s end was careful blankness, but it made sense so he left it alone. 

Castiel himself was breathtaking. He wore Grace well, Dean thought. It turned him into this terrifying creature, the kind that he’d seen when he’d first met him. But it also erased the soft, kind side of Castiel that he treasured, the side that liked animals and books and didn’t want to fight. He missed it. 

He was kind of glad that he’d been able to actually see his wings properly at least once. They were beautiful, made up of gleaming black feathers that became tinted with blue in the right light. He wished he could run his fingers through them. 

Michael had latched onto a point that seemed to be where Lucifer was. Dean recognised Lucifer’s Grace through him; each Grace had a distinctive feeling to it, and now that he had an insight into that, Dean could see it plainly. It was like they were different shades of colours, only more complex than any rainbow could ever be. Lucifer didn’t even seem dark; he was surprisingly light. 

They landed on the flat roof of a building - a hospital if Dean wasn’t mistaken, but he didn’t get a good look at the sign that they passed. Lucifer was indeed already waiting. 

Like Michael’s wings, Lucifer’s were white, but they glowed; like Castiel’s, they changed colour in the light, but it was pale greens and pinks that lit up his feathers. They were raised off of the ground slightly, but his primaries still trailed along the roof beneath their feet. 

He had recovered Nick as his vessel somehow; Dean clearly remembered watching the poor guy crumple to the ground, and he’d assumed that he was dead. Maybe he’d survived it somehow, or Lucifer had just reclaimed his corpse to reanimate. He knew that demons had done that for Abaddon, so who was to say that fallen angels couldn’t get the same treatment? 

“Lucifer,” Michael greeted. 

“Brother,” he replied, inclining his head. “You don’t have to do this.” 

Ah, so he already knew why they were here. Even Lucifer probably knew that there was a very limited range of circumstances in which Dean would let Michael in. 

Michael arched an eyebrow. “You say that now, brother, but I know you. You won’t rest for long. Sooner or later, you’ll continue as you were before we were trapped. The Cage was just a practice for this.” 

Lucifer’s wings shifted, lifting and fluffing in an attempt to display his dominance. Dean felt Michael do the same, only with much smoother movements - raise, spread, arch. 

“You are so focused on doing what Father wanted,” Lucifer accused. “It’s all you ever focused on, even in the Cage.” His eyes drifted, settling on Castiel, and he smirked. “Although, is this the hint of a rebellion, Michael? Bringing backup, are you?” 

“No. The only Grace I have brought is my own.” 

_Sneaky_ , Dean admitted. Michael didn’t reply to him. 

Lucifer watched Castiel for another few seconds, as if he was trying to puzzle out Michael’s words, but he soon dismissed him for the subject of real importance at hand. Throughout his scrutiny, Castiel remained still. Not a feather shifted. 

If Dean had been in control of his body, he would have shivered. 

“So, what do you intend to do, Michael? No, wait.” Lucifer held up a hand. “Let me guess. You want to prove a point to the other angels, don’t you? You want to prove that you’re still a strong and capable leader…” He glanced at Castiel, adding, “As stretched thin as you are. I am, supposedly, an easy and logical target. With my defeat, they’ll be only too glad to bow down to you again. Am I right or am I wrong?” 

Michael gritted his teeth; Dean heard the little click as they snapped together. His wings spread to their full extent, brushing behind Castiel and reaching the edges of the roof. Grace crackled beneath his feathers as Michael prepared himself; the cool metal of his sword fitted into his hand. 

Dean heard a quiet sound from his left, and he felt along the link between Michael and Castiel to check on him. The Grace fizzed along there too, filling Castiel with power. Dean thought that it must have taken him by surprise. There was acceptance from his end now as he too prepared himself. 

Michael’s feet shifted as he leaned forwards into a crouch. “You’re wrong!” he spat, leaping forwards. His wings rushed through the air to provide further speed as he darted towards Lucifer. 

He thrust his blade forward, aiming for Lucifer’s heart. 

_Clang!_

Michael was thrown backwards. Lucifer raised his own blade, a cruel, twisted smile on his lips. “You thought it would be that easy, Michael? After all of our _practice_?” He clicked his tongue. “You’re not as strong as you were downstairs either. You’ve let yourself go.” 

There was a flurry of movement to the side - dark wings shifting Castiel elsewhere. Seeking to distract Lucifer, Michael pounced again. 

Their swords met once more with another clatter. The edges scraped together as they pressed against one another, trying to find a chink in the armour. 

Castiel’s signal was his flared wings. He shot forwards, lips pulled back in a snarl as he swung his blade towards Lucifer’s neck. A white wing snapped out at the last second, slapping him away. The only reward they had for their second attempt was the tips of a few feathers that were shaved off as Castiel toppled back. 

Dean ached to yank the reins back so he could see if Castiel was okay, but he was back on his feet within seconds, looking only mildly ruffled. 

They fell into a dance together, made up of Michael and Castiel darting in and out as they chipped away at Lucifer. Their opponent didn’t seem to be finding this difficult at all, as he just stepped and swerved and ducked. 

Michael and Lucifer knew all of each other’s moves. Dean could snatch fleeting glimpses of Michael’s thought processes as they battled, and he saw him assessing each of the options he could take. He even heard his demands of Castiel once or twice. From the point of view of a soldier, it was a fascinating thing to witness. 

From the point of view of a person, it was terrifying. 

Dean could see every little thing that would go wrong. He watched as Castiel was beaten back time and again, and he was grateful that Lucifer’s focus seemed to be on Michael. The little nicks they each had on their bodies glowed with Grace; Dean felt the burn of it on his skin as the cuts healed over again. It was bizarre to see his wounds seal up without having to wait days or weeks for the skin to be unbroken again. 

It was then that everything started to change pace. Dean didn’t know how long they’d been fighting; he thought that the sun had changed position in the sky, but he wasn’t sure. 

In a surge of power, Lucifer spun, flinging Michael away with an arm, a wing, and Grace. His back slammed down onto the roof, and even Michael gasped in pain at that as his wings were crushed beneath him. Dean thought he even heard a bone crack. 

As Michael sat up again, his Grace already knitting the break back together, there was the clinking of swords being dropped and the sounds of a scuffle; Castiel and Lucifer were fighting hand to hand. Each gripped the arms of the other, wings beating the air as they fought to gain ground. Michael gripped his blade and struggled to sit up again. 

Lucifer flung Castiel back, only to grab his wings and _pull_. 

Dean had heard Castiel cry out in pain before, but this was unlike anything he’d ever heard. It was a yell of raw agony, one that urged him to rush over and cradle his friend or run far away. 

The link between Castiel and Michael meant that they felt everything. 

They felt Lucifer’s tugs on their own wings, the pain as he kicked Castiel’s feet out from underneath him and forced another bolt of sensation along the already sensitive nerves. 

Dean didn’t even notice that his and Michael’s anger had become one and the same, nor did he notice that they moved together when they staggered upright. All he knew was that Castiel was in pain, and he could stop the bastard that was doing it. 

Castiel was fighting back, but it wasn’t doing much good in the face of Lucifer. His features were twisted in pain as he tried to reach one of the discarded blades, and when that failed, he screwed up a hand in the archangel’s collar and swung a fist towards his face. It landed - Dean heard the smack - but Lucifer ignored it, even when Castiel broke his nose and blood trickled down his chin. 

“Come on, Cas _tiel_ ,” Lucifer snarled. “You can fight better than that! Where’s the rebel in you gone?” 

Dean and Michael hadn’t even taken a step when Castiel surged upwards, ripping his wings free from Lucifer’s hold. Black feathers scattered across the roof as they were torn from their roots, drifting to rest over the cut tips of white ones. He slammed into Lucifer, forcing him back a couple of steps. 

Lucifer wasn’t having any of that. 

He grasped Castiel by the throat and slammed him back down again. The roof crumbled a little beneath the force of Lucifer’s grip. Castiel didn’t need the air so he didn’t choke, but it must have hurt a hell of a lot on his already sore back. 

Dean couldn’t take it any longer. He yanked his body back and leaped forwards, fingers tightening around Michael’s sword as he sprinted. He opened his mouth to yell Castiel’s name, but was stopped by an invisible force. 

Lucifer? 

No. Michael. 

_Stop, Dean. If you want to rescue him, retreat._ When he hesitated, Michael urgently added, _Now!_

_We do it together,_ Dean decided. He retreated enough so that they were one again, working in tandem like they had been before. 

There was a pause, and then, reluctantly, Michael agreed. _Together._

Castiel had grabbed hold of Lucifer’s arms and was attempting to throw him off. This time, Michael’s approach was slow and calculated. Instead of surging forwards to throw Lucifer off like he might have before, he was trying a tactic that he’d never used before, not even in the Cage. 

Michael placed a hand on Lucifer’s shoulder. It wasn’t a tight hold, merely a gentle press. It startled Lucifer enough to make him release Castiel and look up. 

“Enough, brother,” Michael said quietly. 

Lucifer was evidently confused, and honestly, Dean didn’t blame him. These two had never tried a gentler approach to their destined feud - he didn’t think it had ever occurred to them. 

They’d said that they knew every move that the other had, every action that they might take when the fight became reality, but Lucifer hadn’t anticipated love. 

“Michael?” Lucifer murmured. He stood slowly, ignoring Castiel entirely now. 

His hand slid to Lucifer’s elbow, his hold still just as gentle. He still held the blade in his other hand, but his fingers were loose. 

“It’s over, Lucifer.” 

Dean knew that Michael wasn’t going to be able to strike the final blow. He could feel his hesitance to do so. 

_Let me_ , Dean said. 

Briefly, Michael held on tighter to his control of Dean’s form, but then he relaxed. He gifted him with the use of the hand holding the blade. 

When it pierced Lucifer’s chest, the archangel seemed surprised. His eyes opened wide in shock as the enchanted metal sunk into his heart, and his mouth fell open. The glow of his Grace shone from the wound, his mouth, his eyes. 

Dean felt no regret, not after what he’d done to his family, but grief tore into Michael’s Grace. It was disorientating to find himself in total possession of himself again while still aware that there was an angel inside him, burrowing down into the corners of Dean until he was needed again. He could still feel the power of Grace under his fingertips though, and he wondered whether he’d be able to access it. 

He was left with the limp body of Lucifer, a handful of an archangel’s sword, and Castiel, who was getting back to his feet. 

The cold mask had been shattered, leaving just Castiel behind. Powered up Castiel, sure, but him rather than the soldier. 

Dean dropped Lucifer; he crumpled like Michael’s previous vessel. He tucked the blade into his belt loop, and then stepped over to his angel. He clapped him on the shoulder, then gentled the touch, brushing it along his upper arm. “You okay?” 

He could still see Castiel’s wings. Hesitantly, Dean reached out and skimmed his fingertips along them. Castiel winced, so he let his hand drop. 

Castiel sighed, nodding once. “I’m fine. Where’s Michael?” 

Dean tapped his chest. “In here somewhere. I, uh, I think he needs a minute.” 

He could understand that. He and Sam had been intended for him and Lucifer, after all; the strength of the love that had been there was one that the Winchesters shared too. Dean knew that he wouldn’t have been able to kill Sam, which was why he’d stepped in to do what was necessary for Michael. 

Maybe they weren’t so different after all. 

There was a shrill scream of fury from below in a voice that Dean recognised. He darted to the edge of the roof, peering over, and saw a sight that made his stomach drop. 

It was Abaddon and, surrounding her, an army of demons. 

The scrape of claws made him jerk back from the spectacle - it was Crowley, astride a hellhound that, miraculously, Dean could see. It terrified him to see the great beast again, but he squashed that fear as he stood his ground beside Castiel. 

“Dean,” Crowley said, sounding surprised. “You’re very… angelic today.” His gaze flicked to the body behind him; Dean assumed that Crowley understood what had happened to Michael, because he pulled on a merry smile and said, “Ready for Round Two, gentlemen?”


	20. Birds of a Feather

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With the completion of the fic, I'd like to thank everyone who took the time to read this, who left kudos, bookmarked - whatever you did. It's been a wonderful journey and fun to do.
> 
> I'm not done with this 'verse yet, though. There's still extra one-shots to come! And, as promised, [here](http://8tracks.com/adurnaskulblaka/help-me-through-the-storm) is the soundtrack for the fic.
> 
> Once again, thank you for taking the time to read this. I'm definitely looking forward to coming back to this to do bits and pieces after a couple of other projects I have in mind, but for now, I'll leave you with the final chapter.
> 
> Songs for this chapter:  
> Carry On Wayward Son - Kansas

The demons at the foot of the hospital paced like hungry jackals, waiting to pounce on their prey. Dean could hear their angry mutters, often quieted by a harsh bark of a sound from Abaddon. She was more patient than her kin; she stood still, eyes fixed on them where they stood on the rooftop.

Dean wasn’t too happy about the height. They had to get down there somehow, sure, and it sucked that his fear of tall places was kicking in now, but there wasn’t much that he could do about it. He’d moved back from the edge to stand in the centre, near the break in the cement where Lucifer had punched Castiel into the ground. 

Crowley was, obviously, amused by his display. Dean glared right back at his smug smile. 

“Okay, but seriously,” he growled, “how are we getting down from here?” 

“Crowley can use his hound,” Castiel decided. He approached, taking hold of Dean’s elbow. “I’ll fly us.” 

Dean eyed his wings, his nerves apparent in the shifting of his feet. “You sure you can handle that? You took a pounding, dude.” 

Castiel just looked amused. “I’m fine.” His gaze shifted, moving to look over Dean’s shoulder. “Are you ready, Crowley?” 

“As ready as I’ll ever be.” Crowley’s smile was positively shark-like, the tips of his teeth bared as he grinned at them. The hellhound beneath him shifted, its tail swiping through the air with a whistling sound as it moved its paws, eager to get going. “As much as I’d love to take Abaddon’s life myself, I’ll leave that to you, Dean. I’ll gladly take her head, though.” 

_Gross_. Dean wrinkled his nose, but didn’t comment on that - out loud, anyway. Instead, he turned Michael’s blade over in his hand, testing the feeling of the cool metal under his fingertips. The sparks of power that he’d felt secondhand from Michael were still there, but they were muted a little now; it was like the tingle of blood returning to a numb limb rather than static electricity. 

Castiel didn’t waste time, and Dean was mostly grateful for that. There was the now familiar flap of wings and the jolting sensation of being swiftly moved to another place… 

And then Abaddon’s army was upon them. 

Dean lost Castiel instantly in the fray; his last glimpse of him was a flurry of dark feathers swishing away as he leaped into action, the glint of his blade catching the sunlight for a brief moment. 

He didn’t, however, lose sight of Crowley. It was impossible to miss him on the back of his hellhound, riding like he was a Knight of Hell himself. His own demons - Dean didn’t know where they’d come from, nor could he really tell which side was which, but he was glad that that part had gone to plan - had disappeared into the throng to battle their own kind. 

Dean very nearly forgot that he was in the heat of battle he was so fascinated with watching Crowley. He could take notes on his fighting style for the future; Crowley so rarely got his hands dirty, so this opportunity was one that was difficult to pass up, because Crowley would undoubtedly come back for them one day - this alliance was not an eternal one. From the first day of the good they’d shown towards each other in the months since Heaven had been closed, they’d all known that it wouldn’t remain that way. The balance would be restored, and that was what this battle was all about, wasn’t it? Righting the wrongs. 

Wielding the already bloody archangel sword, Dean dived into the fight. 

He was accosted by demons as he forged his way through the writhing crowd - how hadn’t the humans inside the hospital seen this already? Maybe Abaddon’s army was possessing the poor saps on the inside, leaving the patients without their carers. That thought made the fire of anger burn brighter in Dean’s chest, made his blood boil with the need to cut down these monsters. 

But he couldn’t just cut off the heads of the hydra; he needed to strike it at its heart. 

Abaddon was a visible whirlwind of action in the centre of the storm. She cut down demon after demon, even those that Dean assumed had been her followers at one point, judging by the fury in her features. She was truly a force to be reckoned with. 

As Dean danced and weaved his way towards her, he saw her pause, her gaze raking the field for someone in particular. He couldn’t see her expression from here, but he could sense the anger in the way she held herself: hunched shoulders, clawed hands, the back-and-forth glances of a hunting dog. 

He recognised that feeling in himself; it was how he’d been in Purgatory, which seemed like years ago now. It was a little startling to realise that there were some similarities between himself and Abaddon. He quickly shook that crawling feeling off by sliding the archangel blade between the ribs of another demon. It crackled with orange and yellow energy before crumpling forwards, leaving him to push it off onto the ground. 

Abaddon’s head snapped up, her eyes settling on Dean. A smile crept across her mouth, warping it into a cruel twist. 

Silently, Dean raised his hand, crooked his fingers, and beckoned her. 

The demons seemed to part like water as Abaddon surged forwards, one hand stretching towards Dean. He wrapped both hands around the hilt of his blade, raising it in preparation for slicing. Dean felt the pleasure of meeting a worthy opponent in battle flow through his veins as he swung. 

The blade met Abaddon’s palms - and, surprisingly, she held on. She wrapped her fingers around it, ignoring the way the metal sunk into her skin and sent rivulets of blood dripping down to stain the grass beneath their feet. There wasn’t any sign of the pain that should have been there with the way the sword was cutting deep. 

Why wasn’t she in pain? Wasn’t this supposed to be the way to hurt her, maim her, _kill_ her? 

Dean, realising that it would be useless to try to pull his weapon from her grip, instead aimed to kick her feet out from underneath her, but Abaddon was faster; she neatly stepped out of his range before shoving him backwards, blade and all. 

He stumbled and thought that he was going to remain upright, only the Knight came in again to repeat his failed attempt at sweeping his legs out. She, unlike him, succeeded. 

For the second time that day, Dean landed flat on his back. This time he didn’t feel the crushing pain of wings underneath himself, but twin points on his back appeared to recall the pain, as they twinged when he went down. 

Abaddon pounced, using her demonic powers to boost her speed so she could pin him. She leered at him, and Dean’s stomach rolled; it was a look he’d seen on many predators’ faces over the years, both monster and human alike. It spelled danger; in some cases, he’d seen it on monsters ready to get their meal, and in others it had been a look sent his way over a drink or two by a person he’d never met. 

Her eyes moved up, settling on, he thought, his forehead. “That’s a pretty halo you’ve got there, Dean,” she murmured. “Peeling it away will be a pleasure.” 

That dark energy he’d had a taste of back in her first attack slithered over his skin again. It felt like slime - Leviathan slime if he pictured it - sliding over him to hold him down so Abaddon wouldn’t have to strain to. He wanted to squirm away from it, but was forced to be still, just like before. 

Abaddon brushed the pad of a finger along his cheek, that warped smile back in place. “Let’s get started, shall we?” 

* * *

Sam and Gabriel were having a similar problem, in that they’d been swarmed by demons also. Crowley’s bunch were doing their best to ward them off, leaving Sam to defend Gabriel in the centre as he attempted to finish off the spell. 

“What’s taking so long?” Sam called. He was backed up to stand nearly back to back with Gabriel, but over the yells of battle it was still difficult to be heard. 

He thought he heard a sound that was like a hiss, but it was the kind of an angry cat and not the bubble of a potion. “Damn thing won’t take,” Gabriel growled. “Does it realise that I’m nearly out of juice? If this doesn’t work, Sam, we’re gonna have to get Mikey to do the honors, ‘cause this is ridiculous.” 

Sam bit his lip, scanning for any breaks in the line. “Maybe it’s because you’re not giving it all up? This is about a sacrifice, isn’t it?” 

Gabriel paused to throw a glare over his shoulder at him. “Whaddaya mean?” 

“Cas giving up his soul, Dean was supposed to sacrifice his love by letting Cas go, and you’ve got your Grace.” Sam raised the muzzle of his gun, firing a quick yet accurate shot at an opposing demon that had surged forwards. It crumpled with a shriek. 

“Nah, it’s not that.” Gabriel turned on his heel, and Sam wondered what the hell he was doing; it was only when he glanced over and saw him with his free hand on the forehead of a burning demon that he realised he’d twisted to smite it. Carelessly, Gabriel kicked it away when it was an empty shell, and then he finally spoke again. “It’s working a little, but it needs more mojo. I just hope it doesn’t sap all of it before I can finish up.” 

Sam opened his mouth to reply, maybe to remind him of the lingering traces from the angel Castiel had tried to save months ago, but he was interrupted by the pounding of feet coming towards him. He whirled, gun immediately raised and directed towards the approaching demon. 

She raised her hands, glaring distrustfully at the weapon. “Stop, you asshole, I’m on your team!” 

While he believed her, Sam didn’t lower his gun. She seemed to realise that, as she sighed and put her hands on her hips. “Look, I’m only here to pass on a message. Adam’s been sighted and he’s pretty damn close. Odds are he’ll be aiming for you. What do you want us to do?” 

Sam’s hold on the gun’s grip shifted as nerves burst behind his ribs, setting his heart beating a little quicker. He knew what he had to do, but the question was whether he’d be able to do it. 

He felt a hand on his arm, squeezing gently - Gabriel. “You go ahead,” he said softly. “I’ve got this. A little longer and Heaven’ll be back in business. I’ll catch up with you then.” 

Sam still hesitated, reluctant to leave Gabriel’s side. True, the demons wouldn’t be able to do any real damage to the archangel, but it was comforting to have Gabriel near. The kinship they’d developed was one that Sam didn’t want to lose. 

He nodded. “Alright. Don’t take too long, Gabe.” 

A smile tugged on the corners of Gabriel’s lips, and a spark lit in his eyes. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t, Sammy.” 

He usually hated that nickname. When it came from Dean, it indicated his childish view of Sam, the fact that he was only ever his younger brother or even his son. From Gabriel, it was affectionate and playful. He didn’t mind it so much in this case. 

Sam gave him a small smile and a nod before he followed the already retreating demon. 

She guided him through the scraps that made up the inner circle as Crowley’s side defended Gabriel. They were fierce, eager to follow their rightful king’s orders in the hope that they’d be rewarded somehow when he took the throne again. Sam had no doubt that Crowley would indeed give them something for their bravery - status, maybe, or some other currency that he didn’t want to think about, fearing that it would make his stomach turn. 

Sam had already seen Adam at the very edge, standing like a guard as he watched with an expressionless face. 

Was he like a ruler surveying his army in battle? Would he fling himself into the fight to help his forces, or to try to find his own death? Sam turned these thoughts over in his head with a little anxiety for his lost brother. His guilt was what was urging him to seek to kill Adam; he knew it was what he would want if he was in his situation. He’d hope that someone - probably not Dean, so maybe Castiel - would heed his wish to die rather than become Abaddon’s pawn. 

The demon placed her hand on Sam’s back once they were out of the throng and pushed him towards Adam. “Go!” she urged, before disappearing from sight again. 

Adam watched him approach, his expression still carefully blank. Even when Sam pointed his gun at him, he stayed perfectly still, disregarding it entirely. He fixed his cold eyes on his brother’s. 

All of it made Sam uneasy. He didn’t know how he was possibly supposed to react when all Adam was doing was watching him. The burning anger from before was gone, and Sam almost missed it; at least that was something he knew how to react to, whereas this left them in a stalemate. 

Eventually, a smile without feeling passed over Adam’s lips. “What’re you gonna do, Sam? You just gonna stand there all day?” 

He gestured at him with the muzzle of his gun. “I’m waiting for you to do something.” 

“I’m not going to do anything.” Adam spread his arms, and Sam saw the first hint of emotion in his features. He looked broken with sadness. The only time he’d ever seen that on a demon had been with the Trials - Crowley’s breakdown. “I’m done, Sam. I never wanted this. I’m just doing what she told me to do because there’s nothing else for me. You think I actually want to be her slave?” 

There was no question of who ‘her’ was, either: Abaddon. 

Sam felt his heart breaking for Adam all over again. It wasn’t fair that he’d ended up like this; it was Sam’s fault, their father’s fault, _God’s_ fault. 

“What do you want me to do?” Sam asked simply. 

A shaky yet grateful smile passed over Adam’s lips. “End it.” 

Before he could move to do just that, there was the sound of a thunderclap and a burst of light from Gabriel’s location. Every demon flinched, even those that were on their side, and Sam hissed as his hearing went from the sheer magnitude of the noise - crackles and snaps of electricity as the lashing lengths of the bolts flared. 

A single figure stood in the midst of the explosion. Dark shapes rose from its back, spreading wide until they blocked the bomb-like flare with the impression of six wings. 

The fighting didn’t resume, even as the blinding light faded bit by bit; the demons were clearly in awe of the display they’d just seen. Gabriel turned to face them, a smirk on his lips as he flexed the shadowy wings that still spread from his shoulders. They didn’t take on a physical form, as they seemed to be made entirely of some _absence_ of light rather than taking it. Sam hoped that that wasn’t a bad indicator. 

He caught Gabriel’s gaze, and the smile slipped a little. He nodded once; relief flooded Sam’s veins. 

It had worked. They’d done it. Heaven was _open._

The demons murmured amongst themselves, Crowley’s and Abaddon’s alike. They were evidently frightened by what they’d seen, and they wanted to return to their respective leaders as soon as possible. One by one, they broke away from the group, taking off at a sprint to escape. Sam and Gabriel let them go. 

Adam stayed. 

Out of the corner of his eyes, Sam saw those wings sweep through the air, seeming to caress it as Gabriel transported himself. He reappeared behind Adam to grasp his forearms and hold them tightly behind his back. 

“S’all yours, Sammy,” Gabriel said. 

He tucked the gun into his waistband, trusting Gabriel to alert him or to deal with any stragglers that still wanted him dead; in the gun’s place, he withdrew the demon knife. The hilt settled into his palm with a familiarity that he supposed should be worrying, but it was comforting more than anything else. 

Sam stood so he was almost toe to toe with Adam. His little brother, darkened and twisted until he was almost unrecognisable, looked up at him with, for one of the first times, something akin to happiness. 

He put the tip of the blade to his chest, not yet pressing. He had to say something first. “I’m sorry, Adam.” 

The boy - he couldn’t be very old, could he? He didn’t seem it - smiled. This time, there was relief in his gaze. “It’s okay, Sam.” 

When Sam pressed on the knife, Adam closed his eyes and relaxed. 

* * *

Barely seconds had passed between Abaddon’s words and the sudden flare of brightness Dean felt inside him. It was like Michael’s Grace was being called upon to rise to the surface; it burned hot as it surged, forcing Michael to assert his dominance in Dean’s body once more. 

* * *

Castiel felt his borrowed Grace rejoice when its link with Heaven was rebuilt. It settled back into place like warm arms around him, welcoming him in. 

He knew for a fact that the angels wouldn’t be that welcoming, even though he’d had a hand in reestablishing their home. They wouldn’t want him with them - it didn’t matter though, because he didn’t want to stay anyway. He had a new home with the Winchesters, and he was determined to return to them, even if he had to fight tooth and nail to get _something_ that would let him live on Earth with them. 

This would be the final time he had his wings then, wouldn’t it? Castiel used one to beat back a demon as he carved a path through Abaddon’s best, much like Crowley’s hellhound as it tore up the ground with its sharp claws. He sensed that Michael had taken hold once more, and he was in trouble judging by the pitch of his Grace. He needed to help him. 

Forging his way through writhing demons proved to be a useless tactic, however. Changing his mind, Castiel flapped his wings and took to the air. He allowed himself a moment to revel in the feeling of a breeze in his feathers again, but then he returned to the task of locating his brother-in-arms. 

There. Abaddon had him pinned to the ground, held under her dark influence. Even though he still had his sword in his grasp, he was powerless to stop her from doing whatever she wished. Castiel couldn’t hear her words, but he sensed Michael’s disgust and, yes, fear. 

Quieter than the most silent owl, Castiel swooped down to land in a crouch, the tails of his coat piling behind him. He stretched out his senses, using Grace to remain aware of his surroundings while he reached out to his brother. 

_Michael, throw away your sword._

Alarm spiked along the connection. _Have you gone mad, Castiel? That’s suicide!_

_No, it’s intelligent. She’ll let down her guard when you’ve thrown away your only weapon, which I will pick up and finish her with._

There was a pause; Castiel saw Michael’s mouth moving as he spoke with Abaddon. His expression was cool and polite, but Castiel knew what he was really feeling. 

Underneath the barrier of Grace, he could detect the brightness of Dean’s soul. It thrummed with nervous, trapped energy, much like that of a caged tiger. He wanted to be let out, but he knew that it would be detrimental to the battle of wits being waged at the moment. If he could, Castiel would have reached out to soothe him. 

The sword tumbled from Michael’s grasp, sliding away on the blood-damp grass. He’d pushed it with a tiny burst of Grace as well as physical movement so Castiel would, hopefully, be able to grab it without Abaddon noticing. 

He glanced around quickly, taking stock of what was happening. Crowley seemed to be rounding up the demons with the help of those on his side and the hellhounds that were herding them; even demons feared their gnashing teeth and razor sharp claws. There was nothing to sneak up on him and ruin his assault. The only thing that could go wrong was the execution of it. 

Castiel slid the angel blade he’d been using into his belt so both of his hands were free. Stealthily, he crept forwards in his crouch, cursing his coat for the rustles it made across the ground. To remove that soft sound, he took to darting forwards on his wings alone to retrieve the blade and move back a suitable distance. 

Abaddon hadn’t noticed a thing. She was too entranced with the prey she had in her claws. She was a cat with a dog held beneath her paws, trying to assert herself as the queen she deemed herself to be. 

Little did she know, her leadership was over. Crowley was asserting himself again and she would not live to retake the throne. 

_Dean tried to harm her, but it didn’t work,_ Michael informed him. _You must infuse the blade with our Grace when you attack. It’s not the blade but it’s the Grace, Castiel._

_It always is,_ Castiel replied simply. For probably the last time, he called upon the energy that he’d harnessed throughout his existence. An archangel’s Grace was so much more powerful than that of a seraph’s, even though he’d been in one of the higher choirs of Heaven. It was a heady sensation to have all of that energy in his palm. 

This time, Castiel was going to do things right. He wouldn’t let this be a repeat of Raphael and the Leviathan. 

At the same time as Castiel pulled on the Grace, Michael did the same. Abaddon hissed as his eyes glowed with that bright light that signalled destruction, but she didn’t rear back. 

Castiel leaped forwards and grabbed her shoulder. He used it as leverage as he slammed the blade through her back; he pulled her towards himself as he did it, so when the tip pierced her chest to come out the other side it wouldn’t hurt Michael and Dean. 

Abaddon screamed as she burned from the inside out. It wasn’t out of pain or fear - it was a scream of utter fury. 

And then she slumped, her face still twisted into an enraged snarl. Castiel threw her off of himself and dropped the blade for good measure, unwilling to touch it; the temptation of the Grace still fizzling inside the metal was too great for him to hold onto it. Thankfully, it fizzled out of existence before he could be tempted to reach for it anyway. 

Michael slowly pushed himself upright. He shook dirt from his wings as he stood, the bits of soil clearly visible on his battered feathers. They were bent and some were at awkward angles; he’d need to preen when he returned to Heaven. 

The look on his brother’s face stopped Castiel’s thoughts in his tracks. It was determined, cold, and still spoke of grief over Lucifer’s death. Castiel had hoped he’d never have to see that expression on Michael’s face, but here he was, witnessing it firsthand. 

“Crowley,” Michael snapped. 

He didn’t call very loudly, but the thud of paws spoke of Crowley’s approach. “Yes, Michael?” 

“Abaddon’s corpse is your issue.” Michael spread his wings, reaching to grasp Castiel’s arm in an iron grip. “So is her army. Deal with them how you see fit, but keep them away from mine.” 

Crowley exchanged a questioning, wary glance with Castiel. He wished he had some form of comfort for him - Crowley had fought well and been a valuable asset to them, after all. 

The newly restored king narrowed his eyes slightly and inclined his head towards Michael. “Naturally. I hope things run smoothly for you back in Heaven.” 

“Thank you.” Michael didn’t linger more than that; Castiel was yanked harshly into the air as Michael leaped into flight, barely waiting for Castiel to spread his wings to follow. 

The move from their battleground to his fall site was awkward. Michael refused to release his hold on Castiel’s arm and neither would he slow down, meaning Castiel had to work twice as hard to keep up with him. He could sense Dean’s distress underneath Michael’s Grace, and it was agitating Castiel in turn. 

The landing was rough, too. The area was deserted but for Sam and Gabriel, who were standing in wait for Dean’s promised return. Michael staggered upon reaching the ground, but Castiel managed to remain steadily upright. 

“How’d it go, bro?” Gabriel asked. He moved forwards, attempting, Castiel assumed, to help Michael, but the latter brushed him off. 

“Perfectly,” Michael growled. “I’m going to Heaven with Castiel. Gabriel will fulfil his duty of a messenger to pass any news of Castiel to you.” 

Sam pushed past Gabriel, his brow furrowed with a mix of anger and worry. “We don’t get to say goodbye?” 

Castiel spoke before Michael could. He didn’t want him to steal this from them. “There’s no need to say goodbye, Sam, because I’ll be back before long,” he assured him. Sam’s features softened a little in acceptance of his words. He added, “Don’t let Dean do anything stupid.” 

He huffed a soft laugh, half-smiling. “I won’t.” 

Michael was already rising out of his vessel in a form that wasn’t visible to the human eye; Castiel felt himself being tugged with him, but he waited just long enough to see Dean take hold of himself inside his own body again. He met his eyes briefly, and he saw Dean open his mouth to say something. 

Castiel couldn’t hear. Michael had pulled him away, up to Heaven. At least, he supposed, if he was to die now, his last sight would be Dean. 

* * *

He only saw Castiel for a split second before he was gone, as if he’d never stood in that spot. Dean had thought they might have the duty of caring for his body, but they didn’t even have that. He was just… gone. 

The battle had taken its toll on his body, however, weakening him so he fell to his knees as soon as Michael’s Grace removed itself from him. Part of him was glad for the darkness that followed, as he wouldn’t have to face the possibility of losing Castiel for a little while longer. Sam’s shocked cry blurred in his mind as he closed his eyes. 

* * *

A day passed before Dean woke again. 

A second went by before he got out of bed. 

It took a third for him to be strong enough to go outside. 

Sam watched his progression with pity. He wished that he could do something to ease the obvious pain his brother felt. Dean had wrapped himself in a moody attitude to protect himself from a reality that he didn’t want to face; it was a tactic Sam was used to seeing him use, but that didn’t make it any easier. 

He didn’t speak much. Whenever Sam, Gabriel, or Kevin tried to engage him in conversation, he’d give answers that were straight to the point. He rarely smiled, and Sam had only heard music from his room once - Kansas, if he wasn’t mistaken. 

Sam had quietly asked Gabriel to check up on the situation in Heaven, but Gabriel had only shrugged and said, “Michael’s not taking any visitors right now. Sorry, kiddo.” 

Dean still cared for himself in body, but Sam didn’t think that he was doing very well for himself mentally. If he wasn’t speaking, he was wallowing, and Dean’s mind was often a dangerous place to be. He was sleeping and eating and showering, but they were just the motions that he went through, the routine that he’d built up since living in the bunker. 

Part of Sam worried that Dean had placed too much of his happiness on Castiel, like he had with Sam a while ago, and the only reason he wasn’t trying to make a demon deal was because he knew it was useless since Castiel’s soul was wrapped up in a spell. 

By the fourth day, Dean had started to disappear, heading outside until evening fell. He often took a few things with him - a book or a beer (which had returned to the bunker, courtesy, Sam suspected, of Gabriel at Dean’s request) - and returned to put everything away once the night drew in. He didn’t try to explain himself so Sam didn’t ask. 

When a week had passed since the battle, Sam followed him outside one morning to see what it was he was doing. 

Dean had placed a folding chair outside, in a patch of sun. As he watched, he sat down and balanced the book on his knees as he cracked open the beer he’d brought with him to take a sip. Dean licked his lips, looked down at the bottle, and picked at the label for a moment. 

Sam couldn’t take the silence anymore. “Dean?” 

He received a grunt in return. Sam took that as an invitation to continue. 

“What are you doing?” 

For a moment, Sam didn’t think he was going to answer, but then he sighed and lowered the bottle to the ground. His gaze shifted to the path that led up to the bunker, staring without seeing. “I’m waiting, keeping an eye out, whatever you wanna call it. Figured I might as well set up shop out here instead of locking myself away in my room.” 

It was a fair point, Sam supposed. 

“You know you can’t just hang around like this forever, don’t you?” he asked gently. 

Dean snorted. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.” 

“Good.” He paused. “I don’t think he’d want you to do it.” 

“Me neither.” 

“Then why are you?” 

This time, Dean was quiet for a couple of minutes. Sam let the silence reign so he wouldn’t be pushed for an answer. When he did speak, Sam was shaken to his core to hear the raw pain in his brother’s voice. 

“It’s just somethin’ I’ve gotta do, Sammy,” he murmured. “To… you know, to be able to move on if things don’t work out. I’ve gotta tell myself I did my part, and if my part is to keep a vigil for him-” 

“I get it,” Sam interrupted. “It’s okay, I get it. Don’t do this for too long though, okay? Because otherwise it’s gonna move past doing your part, and it’ll become… it’ll be unhealthy instead.” 

Dean’s sigh was shaky. “I know.” 

“Okay.” Sam hesitated, then clapped him on the shoulder. Unsure what else to say, he disappeared back into the bunker. 

* * *

Dean swallowed hard when Sam disappeared, pressing down the tears that wanted to spill. He hadn’t yet cried, and he wouldn’t either, not unless he knew for certain that Castiel wasn’t coming back. There was no point in letting it all out only to take it back later. 

He closed his eyes and tipped his head back, soaking up the sun on his cheeks. He tried to distract himself with the good weather and books he hadn’t yet read, but it couldn’t really compare to the gaping hole he felt in his chest. 

One of the thoughts that haunted him was that he’d never even had the chance to say that he loved Castiel to his face. 

He heard the crunch of footsteps coming towards him and he felt his armour grow a little tighter. “What now, Sam? You can’t persuade me to come in, y’know.” 

But, instead of Sam’s voice, an achingly familiar growl said, “Hello, Dean.” 

Dean’s eyes flew open as he surged upright, his chair toppling behind him in his rush. Castiel stood before him, as good as new, looking exactly as he had when he left. His stupid trench coat still flapped around his ankles, his shirt was as messy as before, and his hair was the same story. 

The only difference was a bottle on a string around his neck. It looked like Gabriel’s, and it glowed with a soft blue light. 

His smile, when Dean looked at it, was radiant. 

He wasn’t sure who hugged who, but either way it was the best damn hug he’d ever had. Dean buried his face in Castiel’s shoulder, melting into his front with a gasp. His fingers grabbed fistfuls of the back of his coat, as if he could hold him in place should he try to leave again. Dean felt Castiel press a kiss to the side of his head, and he let out a breathless laugh. 

“Welcome home, Cas.”


End file.
